Anger
by Graysonation
Summary: Their relationship 'hit a rough spot' the moment that Reid's head hit the wall. And suddenly, after the worst happens, it's up to two men very much in love to find their way back to each other. Or can they?
1. The Morning After

**Author's Note:** I TOLD ya it would be up eventually! And it only took me a month to get around to it this time, instead of six. Boo-yah! *Punches air*

Now, first and foremost, let me point this out; I do not now, nor have I ever, supported relationships that are in any ways abusive or harmful. That stuff's messed up, and it break's m'heart to see. This is a work of _fiction_, and based entirely off of a really weird dream I had a while back. Don't read too much into it; I'm just craving some delicious drama, and until DarknessIsTheUniverse comes up with another chapter for her novel, I'm up shit's creek.

Anyhoo . . . I'll attempt the weekly updates, of course, but no promises; either I'm gonna kill my chef, or he's gonna kill me, but either way, this Garde Manger class cannot freaking end _soon enough._

Meh, enough of my tepid life. Ya clicked on this story for a reason, so let's finish up this intro and try to get to the good stuff.

**Kudos: **Many thanks to both **Annber03** and **silverwrym** for their nudging to get this thing both started and finished. I like to stall, and I needed the push, so thanks much for that, dearies.

**Warnings:** This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

**Disclaimer:** The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling _Criminal Minds_ as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is _yours._

Do enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter One:<strong>

_ The Morning After_

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><p>Throughout the city of Washington, D.C, morning had arrived anew. The gray fingers of dawn stretched from rooftop to rooftop, milky light pouring in through windows and peepholes, under the cracks of doors and between the shutters of many closed houses.<p>

While many, many people were still asleep as the sun began to rise on another wintery day in the state of Maryland, there were some souls just beginning to awaken.

Or, in the case of Dr. Spencer Reid, some who had been awake for quite awhile already.

Ever the joke of his team about his sleeping habits, it was hardly unusual for the young member of the BAU to be up in time to personally greet the paperboy and garbage-men. This morning, like many, Spencer had woken when the stars were still visible outside, and now lay staring at the ceiling as he patiently waited for his alarm clock to go off, for an excuse to get out of bed and get some coffee.

It was, of course, out of habit that the young man was already up. But, even if he wasn't a typically early-rising person, Reid knew deep-down that he would have already been up by this point, if for no other reason than the nightmares were starting to get to him. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the yelling, see the anger, feel the pain of being held down . . . He shuddered.

Reid hated nightmares. Really and truly, he despised them in their every sense.

It was strange . . . the young genius must have been more groggy than he usually was – as anyone one who knew him well could vouch, Reid was hardly a morning person before his daily dosage of caffeine – but suddenly, Spencer Reid was absolutely _sure_ that he was in the wrong room.

Over the years, when he would lay awake in his own bedroom and watch the shadows change above him, Spencer had slowly but surely memorized every bump, inch, and crack along the faded plaster of his bedroom ceiling. He could identify any area of it with complete and total ease, like a snap of the fingers.

Not that Reid actually could snap his fingers. Another thing Derek Morgan loved to tease him about.

When he thought about his fellow agent, longtime friend and (most recently) boyfriend, Spencer usually felt a twist of happiness in his gut, a small rush and flip in his stomach that could only happen when someone was loving, or being loved.

Right then, though, as the name _Morgan_ ghosted across his mind, all the genius felt was a clench of pain in his stomach, a slight flutter of fear crossing over his heart.

Well, what the Hell was that all about?

Reid thought for a moment, trying to recall the previous day, remember if he and Derek had a had a fight or some other sort of falling-out – but there was nothing. _Just those nightmares . . ._ He shook his head.

He remembered that they had been working on a case; a bad one. The kind with kids, the kind that would never leave their hearts – and, in Spencer's case, his wonderful and terrible eidetic memory. It had been local, which could occasionally make things easier. Not so in this case. There had been interviews, he had been working a geographic profile, and Hotch had told them all to go home when the clock finally struck ten at night . . .

And then nothing. Reid couldn't remember a thing about what had happened next. His memory stopped at him walking Morgan out the door, and then picked up right around the time he had woken up from his first nightmare.

His eyes darted to his watch – also strange, he never fell asleep wearing the antique – which showed that it was within minutes of six o'clock, and, figuring he could squeeze in a nice shower before heading back to the office, Reid made to stretch and get up, glancing around the room as he did so.

Evidently, a lack of caffeine wasn't the issue at hand – this _definitely _wasn't his room. And even though he'd only been there a handful of times over their past few months of being boyfriend and boyfriend, Reid also knew instantly that he wasn't in Derek Morgan's house, either.

The bedding was a soft, pale blue – one that was complemented by gray trim, and perfectly matched the walls and curtains by the lone window in the room. Near at hand was a small bedside table, complete with a lamp, alarm clock, phone and Bible. To the left, he quickly noted a small roundtable and two (also blue) cushioned chairs that rested in a miniscule alcove. A reasonably nice TV on the dresser in front of him, and the door to a bathroom to the far left.

Ah. So he was in a hotel.

For a moment, Reid battled confusion before settling on the idea that, quite simply, he and Derek (there was that uncomfortable twist in his gut again!) must have decided to get a change of scenery and spend the night at one of the local lodges. It wouldn't be the first time that the two had wanted to keep a horrific case away from the both of their houses, and Reid knew that, sadly, it wouldn't be the last, either.

Shaking his head, Reid bit back a yawn as he fully sat up, and the covers from around him dropped.

Huh. He was still in the clothed he'd been wearing last night. Weird.

_So many weird things this morning._

But again shaking it off, the young genius forced himself to ignore the ever-so-slight alarm bells going off in his head, choosing instead to try and get started on this day, to have his own brand of normal. He looked around for Derek, knowing that the older agent was usually up much earlier than himself.

Deciding when his initial scan of the room didn't reveal the man that his boyfriend must still be out jogging, Spencer began the slow and – to him – agonizing process of waking up. As always, he made the bad, assuring himself the pillows were perfectly straightened and the comfort completely smooth before checking his phone for any messages from the BAU. Seeing that there were none, Reid allowed himself a brief second of hope that, since today was Friday, there would be no case coming in, and that he and his team might get a rare full weekend off of work. As much as he loved his job, even the dedicated BAU genius couldn't deny that a few days of no gruesome crime scenes would do him some good. Not to mention that he'd get a little more time to catch up with Morgan.

The small flutter of unease returned, and Spencer immediately quelled it, choosing instead to wonder where in the Hell his boyfriend was, exactly. It was far past six a.m. at this point, and normally the two would share a cup of coffee and a kiss before showering and heading off to work together.

As he looked around, Reid noticed yet another odd thing to add to the cacophony of un-normal-ness that was so far making up his day. His satchel – it was nowhere to be found. Which was strange, because his phone and keys were resting in plain view on the bedside table, and he could feel the uncomfortable bump of his own tattered wallet in his pocket.

He got down on his knees, and looked under the bed. Nothing, still. A quick glance around the room confirmed what Reid already knew; his bag simply wasn't there.

What was going on . . ?

A loud, shrill noise interrupted his thoughts, and startled, Reid let out a most undignified yelp and tumbled backwards onto the floor.

He allowed himself a moment of panic, before his eyes flittered over to the source of the sudden interruption, and he shook his head in mortification.

What kind of FBI agent was still scared by their _alarm clock?_

Reid let out a light scoff. "Get it together," he whispered, slipping easily into talking to himself as he did when he was upset or tired. Right now, he was a little bit of both.

After another moment of sitting on the floor, Reid realized that, of course, the morning wasn't going to start itself, and he edged up, gripping the end of the bed to stabilize himself. He stood, swaying slightly on his feet, and once more looked around the room.

Still mildly curious as to why he couldn't find his bag anywhere, the doctor's sweeping eyes finally located the obligatory tiny coffee machine, next to several small pouches of dark roast, some Styrofoam cups, and a small tray of sweeteners and powdered creamers. Automatically, he set up the one-cup system to brew some of the wonderful drink for him, and then, deciding that he really couldn't wait any longer, Spencer stepped into the bathroom, wanting to get a shower in before trudging off to work.

Eyes barely glancing over the hanging mirror to his left, Reid quickly and efficiently slipped out of his sweatervest, purple button-down shirt, brown cords, classically mismatched socks, and shoes, waiting only a minute for the water in the shower to get hot before stepping under the blast.

Oh, bliss! At his apartment, Reid was constantly having to ask the building's super to fix his bathroom unit, because he liked to turn the water on so hot that it would (and always did) break the knob. It had gotten to the point where the man refused to do any more work on it, and Spencer showered in the cold.

Derek, for all of his wonderful qualities, did not understand why Reid liked the water's pummeling and temperature to be so high, and his shower simply wasn't _enough_ for Reid. Which was fine, because usually the mocha-skinned agent would simply get in the shower with him, and then Reid was much too distracted to focus on petty things like water pressure.

But this time, alone in a hotel room, Reid cranked up the heat until he could feel his skin scorching, and languidly began to soap up, enjoying the peace.

He – they – the team all deserved a little relaxation like this after their last case . . .

_No_, Reid reminded himself forcefully. He was _not_ going to think about that right then. He didn't need the added weight on his shoulders, when all he wanted to do was get to work in one piece.

Shaking his head, the genius reached out for the little complimentary bottles of shampoo and conditioner, stopping in alarm when something on his wrist caught his eye.

Bruises. Large ones, a set of horizontal black stripes covering his right wrist. Some more, higher up, were on his left.

_What the – ?_

He brought his hands up to his face, blinking rapidly, as if hoping that when his vision cleared, the marks would be gone.

Wrong, so wrong. The hefty bruising on his skin stood out more against the pale foam of soap, and Reid had to fight back a wave of nausea at seeing them.

_Someone had grabbed him?_

There was a niggling voice in the back of his head, and Spencer was doing his best instinctually to drown it out, to not listen to the twisting in his gut.

Rather, and reluctantly, he looked down his body, and could see faintly under the steam another string of handprint marks along his abdomen, left on his skin from being gripped too tight, shoved too hard.

Blindly, feeling as though there wasn't quite enough air in the room, Reid reached out, clasping the shower curtain as if his life depended on it and yanking it back so hard that the rings holding it to the rack rattled in their casing.

He didn't care. Because right then, the only thing Spencer Reid was paying any attention to was his reflection in the mirror.

God, he barely recognized himself.

The pale skin, dark bedraggled curls and bright eyes were all still his, all things that Reid remembered and took comfort in in his reflection. The rest, though . . .

The marks on his wrist went quite well with the collection of varying-colored bruises that mottled his skin from his neck down. His eyes flitted briefly over the few on his ribs, clearly highlighting how skinny he was, before landing on his neck, which still bore the marks of large hands from last night.

It took an inner courage the genius had no idea how he'd mustered, but he finally looked at his face, cringing back from the black eye that, when combined with the bruise on his cheek, gave his face the ghastly appearance of wearing some half of a mask.

And suddenly, eyes watering as he took in the split lip and bump on his forehead, the small cuts and nips that covered his body like a collection of bad reminders.

Because, suddenly, the memory slammed into him with the force of a full-speed train. _The fight –_

_ – the yelling –_

_ – names and insults, all muttered under a breath that was reeking of alcohol –_

_ – pain, so much pain before blackness, so much bliss –_

_ – Derek –_

_Oh, god, Derek. _

And suddenly, the tremble of fear running through him didn't seem so unreasonable, so unexplained. Suddenly, the way his insides coiled at the thought of his boyfriend and best friend didn't seem so foreign. Suddenly, he couldn't reassure himself about the sate of things, ply himself with reasoning that _Derek, Derek of all people_, would never hurt him.

Because he had. Last night.

Oh, god . . .

Reid clasped a hand up over his mouth, fighting back the nausea.

_It hadn't been a dream, after all._

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><p><strong>Author's Endnote: <strong>The plot thickens, ooh . . . or it will next chapter. Promise. See ya soon!


	2. The Night Before

**Author's Note: **Well, I guess we've established that actual, _regular_ updates are not going to be something I partake on in this fic . . .

I'm sorry, you guys. Truly, I had this all written by Monday evening, and then I had to work before I could edit and post . . . and then with my finals and a presentation yesterday, I was stressing hardcore and couldn't motivate myself to do anything but study and do _miss en __plaza_ and freak out . . . Yech.

But I know you're not here to hear my excuses. Just allow me once more to say that I'm a doof, and I hope that another chapter suffices as my apology. Ish.

Shanks a million for all the reviews. Y'all are so _sweet_! And even though I can't promise that Morgan isn't going to look like an asshole for awhile, I do know that there will be some sort of happy medium as a resolution. I promise.

But we'll get to that later on. In the meantime, have a wonderful Turkey-Day-Eve, and we'll gather again next week.

**Warnings:** This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

**Disclaimer:** The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling _Criminal Minds_ as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is _yours._

Do enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter Two:<strong>

_The Night Before_

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><p><em>~The previous night~<em>

Reid and Morgan had stumbled into Derek's ranch-style house a little after 11 o'clock in the evening, both leaning heavily on one another's shoulders. Their previous case, besides being emotionally overbearing, had taken almost a week of their time, and both of the two men were looking forward to nothing more than a good, long rest – well, as much as they could get, considering that they had to work again in the morning, despite their Unit Chief's best efforts to score them a day off.

Dropping his satchel on the floor in a familiar manner, Reid walked Morgan over to the couch, and sat him down, hands firmly on his shoulders. When the older man gave him a circumspect look, the genius shook his head firmly.

"Derek, we've been through a lot right now – "

"Pretty Boy, I really just want to go to bed."

"No." Reid's hand shot out to gently grip his boyfriend's shoulder, pleading him not to move. "I . . ." he bit his lip before continuing. "I don't know about you, but I don't think I'm going to be able to sleep just yet. I . . . I need a minute. To – t-to decompress."

It wasn't an outright lie. His limbs ached, and Reid's mind was strung out and spread thin, as was his patience. He needed a little bit of time to get control of his emotions before even attempting to fall asleep.

But it was Morgan he was really concerned about. The case . . . it had involved kids. Boys, to be exact. And a school guidance counselor who was making appointments with them. And abducting them. And . . .

Reid shook his head. Never again did he want to have to think about that murderous, slightly mad look in the man's eye when they brought him in. About the snide expression on the pedophile's face when he told them that there were plenty of bodies they hadn't found, and that he would reveal their locations only for a deal. A good one.

About the way the expressions on Morgan's face had gone from horrified, to furious, to downtrodden and sad and _defeated_ almost too quickly to categorize, as though his emotions were all stumbling into one another in their effort to be felt.

The case had been – still was – affecting him far more than Reid. And it was bad.

Reid finally returned to the present enough to see his Morgan nodding at him, smiling gratefully – because they were both profilers, and they both knew what Reid was really doing. He forced his lips to turn up for just a moment, and then, one hand lingering on his boyfriend's shoulder, went off to the kitchen in search of something to drink.

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><p>They kept a very small selection of bottles on hand for nights such as this; when the casework got to be too much, and the sleep got to be entirely too little.<p>

Grabbing a beer for Morgan and pouring a small bit of vodka in a tumbler for himself, Reid went back out to the living room armed with drinks and refills – not that he expected they wouldn't be asleep after the first glass or so. As he passed into the living room, he saw Derek putting away the small, orange bottle that contained 50 mg. sleeping pills; enough to knock out a horse, as the darker agent so loved to joke.

He wondered if Derek had taken one, and decided against it; his boyfriend knew well enough not to mix pills and alcohol – especially not when they were so close to some sleep.

Oh, and sleep sounded so wonderful right then.

Biting back a yawn, Spencer forced himself not to focus on his own exhaustion right then, choosing instead to smile at his lover and hand over the chilled bottle of beer.

Morgan accepted the drink, and almost as an afterthought patted the seat right next to him, inviting Reid to his rightful place, sitting by his side.

Together they sat, silence taking up the room as the only noise became the sound of their lifting their respective drinks and sipping, both taking the peace to reflect on everything that had happened over the past few days.

Next to him, Reid could feel the body of his boyfriend tensing up, the muscles straining, and he realized that even with the late hour and addition of some alcohol, Derek was in no way ready to relax himself or get some sleep. Not even close.

Setting down his glass, the genius turned to his companion, and spoke gently.

"Derek?"

When there came no response, Reid tried again, scooching a little closer on the couch, and raising his voice minutely. "Derek?"

Still nothing, and Reid could feel a rising tide of worry in the pit of his stomach. He reached out, as lightly as he could, and brushed Morgan's arm.

_That_ got a reaction. The older man nearly jumped out of his seat, and in an instant, his head snapped towards Reid, his arm defensively clapping on the genius's shoulder – whether to protect him or fight him off, even Reid wasn't sure.

Breath hitching slightly, it seemed to take a moment before Morgan could recognize his worried boyfriend's face, and he immediately calmed and loosened his grip on Reid's collar – which made the other man un-tense his shoulders. He leaned in closer, trying to offer nonverbal comfort through his proximity to Morgan, but he didn't touch him again.

"Derek . . . are you alright?"

Swallowing tightly, the older man shook his head.

"Do you . . . Will you talk to me about it?"

His lower lip trembling imperceptibly, Morgan again declined.

Carefully, Reid moved in closer still. "I know it's not . . . I know it's hard, Derek. But even a few words can help. And I want you to get some rest tonight. So can we just – ?"

"Spencer." Morgan's eyes were _begging, _shining with his effort to keep too many emotions in check. "_Please_. Just let it go, and let's go to bed."

Reid hesitated a moment, and then shook his head. "I can't, Morgan. Not tonight. I know you need to – "

"I think what I _need_," Morgan cut in again, his face hardening with resignation, "is another drink." And before Reid could stop him, the older man had gotten up off the couch, and slipped into the kitchen, where Reid could hear bottles clinking together as the refrigerator was opened.

Running his hands through his hair in discontent, Reid wondered vaguely if he should just call it a night and guide his boyfriend back to bad.

But he couldn't, he knew. He had had cases hit him hard, right in the heart, had had to suffer the nightmares and the dissolution of his emotional walls when something so awful demanded his attention . . . He couldn't put the man he loved through that, couldn't live with himself letting Morgan suffer through the nightmares.

Even if it was just a word or two, jus a hug . . . Reid made his decision that somehow or other, he was going to comfort Morgan tonight.

Said man entered the living room again at last, a snifter of much harder stuff in his hands that matched the harder expression in his eyes perfectly. Standing before Reid, he took a moment to gather his bearings before he spoke.

"I think that maybe you should just go, Reid. I'm probably gonna call in tomorrow, get some rest . . . So . . ." he drifted off quietly, his stomach twisting with a strange mixture of relief and irritation when his boyfriend started shaking his head.

"I'm staying, Derek," Reid spoke past the lump in his throat that had somehow gotten lodged there when he heard the man he loved call him _Reid_ instead of _Spencer. _

Ever since they had committed to one another, it had always been _Spencer . . ._

Angered by the selfish direction of his thoughts, Reid shook his head clear before again meeting the dark eyes of Derek Morgan. He moved a little bit closer, his arm snaking up the shoulder of his boyfriend, coming to a rest near his neck. Morgan jerked again, and then stilled, forcing a layer of calm over the storm he could feel brewing beneath the surface.

Not seeing his inner turmoil, Reid took the man's silence for acquiescence, and moved closer still. "Let's just talk things out a little bit, sweetie. Just a few minutes, and then," he whispered, his grip unintentionally tightening just a bit as his warm breath brushed against the back of Derek's ear, "we'll go to bed."

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><p>The hand on his collarbone was barely more than a light flutter of fingers, but it was enough. Suddenly, with the voice saying words that were all too close to the ones he'd heard as a child from someone he trusted, with the unwanted proximity and just enough alcohol in him to make things slightly fuzzy, suddenly Derek Morgan wasn't in the living room of a house he had pined after for years with the man he fully intended to someday marry.<p>

Suddenly, he was cowering in the back of a cabin, unfamiliar with the taste of wine and the strange feelings stirring in his gut, hiding as someone he was supposed to trust went stomping around the grounds, looking for him so that they could _do things_, nauseating things, calling out "Derek, Derek . . ."

"Derek?"

The voice slammed into him, shattering the pleasant haze that Lunesta and Captain Morgan had created, and when he was overcome with the familiar and horrible feelings making his skin crawl, for the first time in a long time, Derek Morgan slammed _back_.

His hand shot up, wrapping around the wrist by his throat, and wrenched it away so forcefully that he heard a yelp from the body next to his.

"D-Derek?" The voice was worried, the breathing slightly hitched, the sound fearful.

But Morgan didn't notice anything, because to his ears, the sound was not a question of concern coming from the man he loved; instead it was slick, dark, oily and deep, rich with perverted desire and sickening pleasure. It was the sound that would haunt his nightmares as a fourteen-year-old boy when he lay in bed, crying and disgusted by himself.

Disgusted by the man before him.

Carl. Carl Buford.

Positively shaking with rage, Morgan's grip tightened.

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><p>On the couch next to him, Reid was struggling, trying to angle his body as far away from Derek's as their conjoined hands would allow.<p>

What had happened? One moment, he had been having a fairly common argument between the two of them, hashing out that they needed to talk when one of them was trying to shut down and cap their emotions – it wasn't the first time they'd had this tiff, and Reid had even been on opposite sides before, as the one who wanted to be left alone. Which was why he was being so persistent now.

Something the genius was just very vaguely beginning to regret, as he stared into the seething, unseeing eyes of his boyfriend. He tried to speak again.

"Derek – ?"

A mistake, a huge one. Something dark and unrecognizable flashed in Morgan's eyes, and Reid found himself yanked forward, dragging across the couch – and then Derek's face was threateningly close, inches from his own as the other man glared at him, the undisguised rage making his breathing heavy.

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><p>"Don't <em>call<em> me that."

Reid cocked his head slightly to one side, the confusion evident on his face. "W-what? Derek, I always call you Derek, I – "

_I want to see you take off your clothes, boy. Go on, do it. _

"No!" The scream that Derek had been unable to say all of those years ago ripped from his throat now, starling Reid and scaring him even further, proven when he again tried to back away, tried to pull his arm out of Morgan's grasp.

But he was thin and small, and his partner far bigger and stronger; it was nothing for Morgan to keep his hold with one hand while the other curled reflexively into a fist by his side, barely containing the urge to attack.

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><p>Reid was taking in deep breaths, huge ones, trying to force himself to calm down from Morgan's sudden mood-swings and the unwanted proximity that was scaring the Hell out of him.<p>

Obviously, the case and the alcohol were affecting his lover more than he had thought they would. Derek had been right; they would go to sleep tonight, call in tomorrow, and spend the whole day and as much of the weekend as possible resting and healing from this.

From all of this.

Forcing himself to keep the tremble out of his voice, Reid lowered his volume by about half an octave and spoke slowly, smoothly, and as calmly as he could.

"Derek, it's okay; we can go to bed."

The other man froze, and thinking he was making some progress, Reid reached up his free arm to gently grip Morgan's shoulder, squeezing in a way he knew the other man liked.

"Let's just go to bed, and . . . sleep."

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><p>Derek's eyes widened.<p>

_Take off your clothes, then we'll go to the bedroom. We can sleep later._

It was all beginning to get to be too much; the case (there had been a case?) with the kids (what kids, what _other_ kids?) and the late night after a long day, and then there was Reid, saying those words in that damn voice of his and making him feel things that were wrong, wrong, wrong.

_Wrong again._

He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that had begun to settle over his mind, the wash of memories . . . but nothing was becoming any easier, only a single voice breaking through his barriers.

"Derek, please – "

_I ain't askin', boy –_

"– let's go – "

_We're going –_

"– to the bedroom."

_ – to bed._

And just then a light touch on his shoulder, just another unexpected memory resurfacing –

_No. __**No. **__NO!_

And just like that, it all became too much, far too much.

In a single fluid move, Derek whirled himself off of the back of the couch and, still holding Reid's wrist in a death-grip in his hand, slammed the younger man against the wall behind them, some hidden part deep within him roaring approvingly when the younger man whimpered in pain.

Good.

Why should he be the only one hurting?

* * *

><p>Reid couldn't hold back his gasp as he suddenly found himself held up by his collar, one of Morgan's hands digging painfully into his neck and shoulders while the other one continued to grasp his wrist so tightly that he could feel the blood flow cutting off, making his hand simultaneously numb and tingly.<p>

He never panicked when he was in Morgan's presence, never had any reason to think he was unsafe or in danger at all . . .

. . . But that familiar comfort was starting to perish, every time he looked into those once-warm brown eyes and saw something unfamiliar and disturbing in them. Something scary. Something that likely had everything to do with the way Morgan's breath reeked of alcohol, and crushed white power on his teeth.

_Never mix alcohol with –_

_Oh, God. _

"D-Derek," he said, his voice tight because of the way his chest was constricting in panic, "You h-have to let me g-go. Now."

The older man's face turned thunderous. He leaned in, and, reflexively, Reid recoiled trying to keep more space between them as Morgan's voice, dark and heavy with anger, whispered in his ear.

"Don't _tell_ me what to do."

The grip on his wrist tightened.

"_You_ don't ever get to tell _me_ what to do, do you _hear _me?" That horrid voice continued to hiss in Reid's ear, and he shivered, wondering how everything had turned so bad so fast, how it has escalated so easily.

"Carl."

At that, Reid's eyes shot up, and he glanced over Morgan's face not as a friend or lover, but as a profiler.

_Tense facial features, heavy breathing, pale, eyes darting about wildly . . . _It was an expression that made Derek's face nearly unrecognizable, that twisted the normally friendly gaze into something feral; an expression that shook Reid to his very core, as it was one he recognized all to well from those early days after Tobias, after Georgia.

Oh, God.

_Oh, God._

He was having a flashback. That was what it had to be; Reid had seen the man drink, had partaken with him a fair few times, and he knew that Morgan could hold his liquor like no one else.

But apparently, this case had been rougher on him than any of them had thought, and now, with just a little bit of the hard stuff, he losing it.

Reid couldn't afford to do the same.

He took a deep breath, trying to quell any looks of fear on his face, and then met Morgan's steely gaze, his hand reaching up to grasp the man's shoulder in a similar but far more gentle way.

"M-Morgan, it's okay, it's j-just me. Spencer."

"_Liar!" _Morgan shoved Reid against the wall again, so hard that it knocked the breath out of him, and the genius fought not to struggle, to panic. He knew it would only push Morgan further into his delusion, and that he needed to keep a cool head if he wanted to talk the man he loved out of this.

Fighting back a wince, certain he could already feel bruises forming, Reid tried again. "Morgan, it's me, Spencer – your boyfriend – "

Right then, something in Derek's face cracked, his resolve crumbling as the swarm of bad memories, the torrents of ill-feelings and forgotten nightmares swarming over his mind and replacing the man Spencer Reid had loved for years and years with a creature of pure, instinctual, animal rage.

"_You don't get to call me that!" _He shouted, his tone and volume making Reid flinch again before he took a firm grip around the other agent's waist and threw him to the ground, hard.

Reid scrambled backwards from the towering, furious man above him, terror and confusion making his hands shake, but it didn't matter. In seconds, Derek was hauling him back up, whirling him around so he could slam him against the door.

Reid's face collided with the frame, and he gasped in pain, barely able to see from the stabbing behind his eye and temple. There was going to be a black eye from that tomorrow, that was for sure . . .

But he had bigger things to worry about, when Morgan's grip grew so hard that his nails dug into Reid's neck, and he found himself suddenly unable to breath.

* * *

><p>Pinned down he was, when Reid tried to free himself by reaching out and scrabbling blindly, it was nothing for Morgan land a well-placed kidney punch and keep the younger, paler body beneath his quite still again.<p>

"You don't get to _say _that, you don't get to _do_ that, not after what you_ did._"

Reid squirmed against the arms holding him down, still gasping for air after it had been knocked out of him, looking anywhere but in his boyfriend's eyes.

He could feel something happening, something slipping away from right between their fingers, but he had no idea how to stop it.

"_Not after what you made me feel."_

The arms around his neck began to squeeze, and Reid realized that he had one last chance to snap Morgan out of it – otherwise, there was a good chance he would never get to.

"M-Morgan," he shot out, his voice a whisper, barely audible over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, "P-Please, I – I . . . I l-love you . . ."

It wasn't the first time he'd ever said it, but it might very well be the last.

He didn't feel the hands lessen their chokehold on his neck, and he didn't feel them move to his shoulders. But Spencer Reid certainly did feel being slammed so hard against the wall behind him that his head bounced off if it. He did feel the slight ache and mounting pressure building in the back of his skull as he stared at Morgan – though the other man appeared to be speaking, and Reid tried to listen, he really did, everything was coming in warped and garbled, and he couldn't understand. He felt the chill overtake his body for a brief second before turning into a searing pain, and then he felt it as his body went slack and he tumbled to the floor bonelessly.

He didn't feel much else, because right then, Spencer Reid blacked out.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Endnote: <strong>Ew-kaay . . . lemme have it . . . *runs away*


	3. This Time

**Author's Note: **Dun-nah-nah-nah: FILLER TIME. Can't touch this.

Well, isn't that lovely-special? I actually managed to get this blasted thing in on time this week. Even if there's nothing but sub-plot buildup here. I'm prepping for a fairly bigger chapter that I hope to have all completed by Friday, once the last of my written exams is over . . . oh, and at long last, there is SNOW ON THE GROUND. Thank ye gods.

Anyhoo . . . I'm real sorry I haven't been getting around to answering reviews like I like to; as much as I adore this frakking site, RL is more important at the moment, and I've let the ball drop. But **Annber03, silverwrym, pochetta, omgnotagain, AccalyaWolfriend, Caithlinn13, Sue1313, noobz40, Jack Karl, moreidprofile, Fireflies Flash,** andvarious unaccredited **Guest(s),** I truly do very much appreciate all of the wonderful comments and critiques I've been getting on this venture. This is a totally new experience for me, and one I'm a little nervous about; so thank you ever so much for taking the time to reassure me that I'm not totally wasting my time on this. I appreciate it more than I can justifiably express. *Smiles*

**Warnings:** This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

**Disclaimer:** The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling _Criminal Minds_ as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is _yours._

Do enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three:<strong>

_This Time_

* * *

><p>Reid had to keep a tight grip on the edge of the sink to keep himself from falling to the floor again as wave after wave of merciless memories hit him.<p>

Everything, _everything_ felt so wrong, hurt so much – and yet, he knew it was right. He prayed that he had remembered incorrectly, all the while knowing that that was impossible.

And as Spencer Reid finally met his own haunted eyes in the mirror, it took all of his willpower not to do something like cry right there.

Because it _hurt_ – knowing that Derek had been in that kind of emotional pain, and that he'd had no idea all along. Because it hurt, remembering how he had come to just long enough to hear Morgan rummaging in the fridge for more alcohol, and that he had grabbed his keys and stumbled out the door, afraid of everything that had been, all that was and might or might not be if he so remained there. Because it hurt realizing that he still _was_ afraid. Because all of the marks on his body hurt – not just physically, but emotionally.

Heart and skin alike smarted whenever he glanced at one.

_Oh, God._

* * *

><p>It was in some kind of emotional stupor that Spencer Reid went through the rest of the morning. Mechanically he got dressed, quickly ironing the clothes he'd been sleeping in before slipping them on again, grimacing at the feel of uncleanliness. He made a pot of coffee and managed to jam a breakfast bar into his mouth before double-knotting the laces on his loafers, grabbing his keys and wallet, and heading off to the BAU.<p>

It was with more than an hour to spare that Reid tromped into the bullpen, paying no mind to the few other living bodies around him as he rushed to his desk and sat down in a hurry, opening up a few of the files scattered around and trying to look busy enough that no one would bother him.

No such luck. No sooner had Reid begun flipping through a ballistics report than he heard the firm, smart sound of footsteps that could only belong to one person.

Still, he jumped when the hand of Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner clamped down on his shoulder. Blushing furiously it took the genius a few moments to get control of his breathing again, and he spoke without looking up.

"Good morning, sir." _It's not._

"You're here early, Reid."

He was.

Reid tensed slightly. _What do you know?_

_What did he want to know?_

Realizing his Unit Chief was looking at him, one eyebrow quirked in perplexity, Reid bumbled out, "I just . . . thought I'd get some paperwork done."

A pause, and then Aaron nodded. "Alright. Make sure to save some energy for later, though. I'm sending you and Morgan in to interview Mason again today. We're still not getting anything back from the DA about cutting a deal, and I think with the two of you in there, we might have one last shot at getting some locations."

Reid nodded, slowly. "Sounds like a good idea."_ Please go away._

Hotch waited another moment, watching the man below him, before gently removing his hand and lowering his voice.

"You're looking a little ill, Reid – did you get enough sleep last night? I knew we went home pretty late, and when you're here before I am . . ."

Aarong Hotchner was one of the top profilers of his age. As was Spencer Reid.

And both of them knew what the man was asking by not asking.

_So obvious . . ._The words drifted over both men's minds.

Resisting the urge to actually scream, or cry, or both right then and there, Reid took a moment to chew his inner cheek before he responded.

"I'm f-fine, Hotch. Just need some more coffee, I guess." He let out a dry laugh that both men noticed held no humor.

But Hotch, as professional as ever, gave a miniscule smile and ignored the feeling of unease hanging around his subordinate.

"You're sure." Not a question.

"Positive." Reid's tone was clipped.

Hotch nodded. "Well, . . . I'll be in my office if you . . . need anything." _Change your mind_ went unsaid.

Barely hearing him, Reid shook his head, and didn't look up until he could no longer hear the footfalls of his most senior team member. Glancing around, Reid was relieved to see that the office was still relatively empty, and he darted up and made as if he was heading towards the break room, continually reminding himself to walk, not run. At the last minute, he veered sharply to the left, and ducked into one of the many employee bathrooms, where he pulled out a small package of foundation he'd nabbed from Garcia's office, and set about the difficult task of making his black eye look less like a black eye.

* * *

><p>From up in his office, Aaron Hotchner stood with arms crossed, watching his much-younger coworker slip away before turning to face the rest of the BAU.<p>

Aaron had been a profiler for over twenty years, and he was damn good at his job. Something he wouldn't so callously be able to claim if he wasn't able to spot that something was quite badly wrong with their team's resident genius this morning.

_Here early, same clothes as yesterday, hair uncombed_ . . . If it hadn't been for the moodiness, Hotch would almost have had to assumed that Reid had spent the previous evening getting lucky.

Not that he wasn't entirely sure that that hadn't happened also – but usually, after spending the night together, both Reid and Morgan came into work in consistently better moods, as well as later, with coffee, and noogie-ing or some other playful manner of touching one another . . . at the _very least._

He smiled faintly, as he thought about the two of them.

As their Unit Chief, Aaron couldn't strictly approve of a relationship between coworkers and employees. As their friend, however, he thought that the two men suited one another beautifully, and he wasn't going to begrudge them something that so obviously made the two of them better workers, closer friends, and, more than anything else, just _happier._

So he had done, and continued to do, nothing whatsoever to stop their several-year courtship. And he never spoke of his suspicions – well, at this point, confirmation. Not even Reid and Morgan were aware that he knew, and at times like this, Hotch was grateful for that; something was clearly bothering Reid, and there was just a chance that he, as a more experienced profiler and third party, might be able to get the reserved genius to let something slip.

If Hotch had to put money on it, he would say that the dispirited and heavy way Reid was walking this morning had everything to do with his lover.

And if he had anything to _say_ about it, he would make sure that the spring was back in Reid's step as soon as possible.

So, waiting with just as much angst for the exact same person Reid was, Hotch hummed something soft to himself and turned around, heading back to his office to think.

* * *

><p>At his home, Derek Morgan was only just beginning to wake up.<p>

It wouldn't have been this early, especially not with the half-drunk bottle of Bacardi resting by his bedside table that indicated exactly what he had been up to last night, but the profiler didn't really have a choice in the matter; the way he was laying, the sun hit him directly in the eyes, and after six-thirty, there really was no more getting back to sleep.

Instead, he had lain in the bed, eyes half-closed, and allowed himself to lazily drift in what his boyfriend so affectionately called the 'Twilight Zone,' where he said that Morgan was conscious and comprehending, but that he also sounded like wounded bear if one tried to get him to engage.

He smiled at that thought. Reid could always make him smile, even when the flustering genius was trying to be serious and steadfast – he was simply too adorable not to smile at constantly.

On that thought, Morgan had to wonder where his longtime lover was; even in his semi-conscious state, he could detect that there was no other radiator-warm body next to his. And he couldn't hear the shower going or smell any coffee being made.

So where was Reid?

He shrugged, unable to make himself too concerned; among his many amazing qualities was Spencer's steadfast dedication to his job, and it wouldn't surprise Morgan one bit if that wonderful, ridiculous little genius was already dressed and impatiently waiting in the car to go to work.

_Guess I'd better get dressed, then,_ he thought amusedly.

Standing up and stretching, the muscular agent gave a light groan as his bones cracked, the muscles pulling taut against his sleeping shirt.

Well, not his sleeping shirt. Morgan glanced down.

Weird. He'd slept in his clothes.

Shrugging it off, Morgan stumbled blearily down the hallway, and into the bathroom.

As he turned on the shower, the man yawned and rubbed his eyes, vaguely taking in the room around him. He slammed almost completely awake when he saw the half-empty bottle laying in his new sink.

Stepping forward, Morgan picked up the fingerprint-stained glass, and took in a whiff. Coughing instantly, he nearly dropped the bottle as he turned around.

Bacardi. What the hell was one of his best liquors doing dripping all over the bathroom floor?

_Reid. _Again shaking his head, it was harder for Morgan to feel so amused this time. He loved the man, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind about that. But, for all of his superior intellect, Spencer didn't know a damn thing about good liquor, and more than once on the few occasions he'd tried something from Morgan's cabinet, the smooth flavor and rich tones were wasted as the skinny man would double over coughing and ask for a glass of wine, instead.

But even that image made Morgan smile fondly, and the expression – and good mood that came with it – held on his face for the rest of his morning rituals. Once he declared himself sufficiently washed, shaved, dressed, and coffee'd, Morgan grabbed his keys and cut through the hallway, eager – or was it desperate? – to make it to work in time.

But as soon as the profiler entered the living room, he stopped dead in his tracks, shock taking over and briefly halting his charge.

_What the Hell happened here?_

It looked like a tornado was what had happened. Normally a mess, it might be difficult for some people to discern what it was about his upturned living room that had Morgan's hackles on edge. But his eyes skipped past the usual chaos, and instead went straight to the television that was knocked on the floor, the overturned lamps – and Goddamnit, was that a _dent_ in his wall?

Shaking his head at it all – what kind of party had he and Reid been having last night, anyway? – it took Morgan a moment to begin gauging the damage, logging away each little thing in need of repair in the back of his part-time carpenter's mind.

_Wall, floor, speaker system – wait, what the – ?_

Bending down, Morgan scrabbled blindly for just a second until his hand closed upon the thing that had caught his attention, something brown and leather and buttery-smooth, something laying just underneath the couch. Something that looked a lot like something Reid would own.

_Why would he leave his satchel here?_

The younger man could be very distracted and ridiculous sometimes, but he was _never_ forgetful; he literally wasn't capable of it. And besides, Morgan had bought him the hideous thing (years and years ago, before he knew how much Reid would latch on to it – and him, as well) and it always warmed his heart and made the both of them smile whenever he saw Spencer carrying it.

Morgan pulled the straps apart, and quickly glanced inside; well, Reid had taken his wallet and keys. And his phone, too, it looked like. He'd just left behind all of his casework, his badge and ID, and what looked like a handful of Snickers Bars at the bottom of the pack.

Morgan shook his head at that, and tucked the bag under his arm; he'd just give it to Reid outside, after making a bit of fun of him and swiping one of those candies, of course.

He straightened out the TV and picked up the lamps, and pushed the couch back to its original spot. Looking around, satisfied enough, Morgan grabbed his own keys and finally headed out to the car.

Still seeing no sign of his sweet little genius, Morgan bit back a wave of disappointment and reluctantly slid Reid's bag onto the seat next to his and jammed the keys in the engine. It wasn't all the time that Spencer got impatient waiting for Derek to get up and get ready for work, but it _did_ happen.

He guessed he'd see him at work, then.


	4. Right Now

**Author's Note: **You know what's not a good idea? Getting up at five to type fanfiction, going to work until late afternoon, taking a final, working AGAIN until midnight, getting together with friends to eat Micky-Dee's and alphabetize DVD's at Walmart, going BACK home, watching crappy _Transformers_ movies until 6 in the a.m., and then going BACK to work.

Sleep? Psssht. I'm running on fumes. And barely so.

But, way back before I started boring myself to sleep, I DID manage to get another chapter going. So far, guys, I'm not overall displeased with this fic; it's not a prize winner, but I'm enjoying it quite a bit. We're getting to the crux of the matter, and then some sort of happy resolution or something . . . I dunno. I really just want more angst, and I can't find any m-pregs that are action-y enough. *Sighs* I need help.

Anyhoooooo . . . thanks a squillion for all of the kindly words and reviews and favs and follows and your general AMAZINGNESS that keeps me smiling forever and ever as I continue to perpetuate my existence on this site with more _Criminal Minds_ tripe. To quote that old song, well . . . You make me so very happy. *Smiles*

**Warnings:** This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

**Disclaimer:** The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling _Criminal Minds_ as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is _yours._

Do enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four:<strong>

_Right Now_

* * *

><p>As the hours-hand on the clock came closer and closer to striking nine, the BAU was slowly coming to life. More than half of all the team agents had arrived, and the breakroom was full to bursting with people laughing and talking, the sound of end-of-the-week pumped conversation and the smell of multiple pots of hot coffee being brewed.<p>

Through it all, Spencer Reid had barely looked up from his stack of files, determined to keep everything quiet and close to home that day. All he wanted was to get through this Friday, and then head straight to his apartment so he could get some sleep and chew things over.

Because right then, Reid felt like his head was going to collapse from all of the things he had to think about. _Was_ he going to break up with Morgan? _Should_ he? If so, then what would become of the life they had begun building together? Talks of changing addresses and next year's Christmas vacation had for some time been floating in the air, and many of Reid's shirts had since found their ways into Derek Morgan's closet.

And if not, if they chose to forgive, or forget, or some combination of the two then how were they going to deal with everything that had happened last night? Neither was man of probing words, nor prying manner; and to belay that, Morgan's pride would restrict him from wanting to talk about what had happened, while Reid's timidness would choke it altogether.

As much as Reid wished it would be enough to just slap some bandages and makeup on the wounds and pretend that everything was fine, he knew somewhere deep down that, really, he just couldn't _do_ that.

This would need addressing, and as much as he was dreading it, he simultaneously wanted to get it over with.

Just as soon as Morgan showed up to work.

"Hey, Reid."

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a voice so close to his ear, totally unaware that he hadn't been alone in his thoughts. He swiveled around, eyes resembling those of a deer caught in headlights, and was immediately met by the kind – if somewhat amused – face of Emily Prentiss.

She held up a hand. "Whoah, there, cowboy. Deep breaths, inhale . . . exhale . . ." She quirked an eyebrow at Reid's stiff form. "Easy."

Reid could do nothing to stop the flush coming up in his cheeks. "Emily! Don't do that. You could g-give a guy a pulmonary embolism." He tried to sound indignant, but his wide eyes and stutter gave him away. Emily grinned, and, if possible, Reid's cheeks turned even redder.

"Sorry, sorry," she said amicably, sitting lightly on the edge of Reid's desk. She glanced around at where he had been staring, asking, "Waiting for someone special?"

Reid, still waiting for his heart rate to return to normal, took a moment before replying, "Not exactly." Seeing Prentiss's raised eyebrow, he mumbled, "I'm just . . . Hotch wants me and Morgan to go in and interview Mason Randall. As soon as he gets here."

"Ah." Reid's behavior suddenly made sense to the raven-haired woman. "Is he sure that's the . . . best idea?" They had all seen how Morgan reacted yesterday, knew that he was hardly what could have been called friendly – or even unbiased – regarding the case. Especially because it involved young boys, and –

Prentiss shook her head of the thought. _That_ was none of her business. Instead, she took a keen look at Reid, who was shaking his head.

"I don't know. I guess he figures that with Morgan's – w-well, Morgan's _hostility_, a-and my . . ."

"Innocent youthfulness?" Prentiss cut in, wary.

Reid coughed. " . . . Yeah. I guess Hotch thinks we'll be good enough at the 'good cop, bad cop' thing to possibly extract some more information."

"Speaking of information," Emily leaned in closer, her hand shooting to Reid's face and tugging his chin towards her, "Care to tell me what antics you got into that left you with a black eye?"

Reid's cheeks flooded again, and he dropped his eyes, attempting to pull away from the unwelcome contact with sore skin. "You know me, Emily. I was . . . ah, I was taking shower last night, got rather clumsy with the soap-bar, and then this – " he gestured to the faded black eye "– is sort of proof that I really should stick to baths from now on."

Prentiss looked over the darkened skin again, and then her eyes met Reid's. "Why'd you try to cover it up, Reid?"

He jerked back from the barely-there accusing note in her voice, snapping, "Because I wasn't altogether eager for everyone to start making fun of the clumsy Dr. Reid _yet again_?" Emily flinched back, and for his own sake, Reid ignored the slight hurt that sparkled in her eyes, continuing, "I just want to get this case done, Prentiss, and go home and rest. I'm not in the mood for anything besides professionalism today."

Never one to back down, Emily stood up from the edge of the desk where she'd been sitting, and crossed her arms. "I wasn't trying to tease you, Reid. It's just that, after I saw the pitiful makeup job you tried to do on that shiner, I thought there might be something I could do to help." She glanced at him significantly.

Reid's shoulders drooped slightly, embarrassed by his behavior. "N-no, there's not really . . . If you could just not mention it to anyone else? I'm already tired today, and it's not a big deal, you know?"

Emily nodded. "I do know, Reid." She smiled slightly, and began to turn towards her own desk. At the last moment, she glanced over her shoulder. "Well, if you decide you _do _need someone to talk to, tease you about that rough-housing, or just show you how to use foundation properly, you know where I am."

Reid forced a minute smile. "I certainly do, Emily, I certainly do."

She tilted up the corners of her lips at him, and then sauntered away.

Reid turned his attention back to the doorway of the BAU, intent on watching for Morgan.

He was so focused on his task that when a hand clamped down on his shoulder and he felt breath in his ear, he yelped and jumped up, banging his bad knee on the side of his desk.

Gritting his teeth, it was through squinted eyes that Reid looked up to see just the man he'd been looking for.

"Derek."

* * *

><p>From across the bullpen, Emily stood side by side with Hotch, both of them watching the spectacle of Morgan and Reid. While the former had to bite back a giggle at Reid's infamously easy tendency to startle, Hotch stiffened as soon as he saw it.<p>

Reid reacted like that – jumpy – quite often, because he was so very much in his thoughts. But when was the last time _Morgan_ had given him a scare simply by touching him?

Hotch couldn't even remember.

And it didn't get better. From the distance he was at, as soon as Reid recognized his boyfriend, his posture stiffened, arms crossing over his chest and eyes darting almost imperceptibly to nearby exits – every muscle of his was locked in tension, screaming _I don't want to be here. _

Hotch narrowed his eyes, and prepared to intervene.

A hand on his arm stopped him.

"Don't," he heard Prentiss's voice whisper flatly behind him.

He turned to face her, raised his eyebrow.

An expression that usually had whoever it was aimed at backing off in the most obvious way, his scowl didn't make Prentiss so much as blink. Rather, she pursed her lips at him, eyes stony.

"Look – something's up between them, I knew that as soon as Reid got freaked out by you assigning them to work together."

Hotch nodded. "They must have had a fight – "

"Lover's quarrel," Emily cut in, and then frowned at Hotch's surprised expression. "What? I'm a profiler too, Hotch, and damned good at my job. I figured it out ages ago."

"Anyone else?"

"JJ knows, but that's only because she knew Reid had a crush on Morgan, and one day, he just stopped talking about. Garcia suspects, for the same reasons about Morgan . . . I have no idea about Rossi."

_Garcia with her technical abilities and Rossie being . . . well, Rossi . . . _Hotch rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So basically, everyone on the team is aware, and no one's said a thing until now?"

Prentiss shrugged. "Us girls figured that when they were ready to tell, they would tell. How come you didn't say anything?"

"The rules in our hand book say that unless something affects our team dynamic, I don't need to be concerned about it. Basically." He added at the last minute.

Beside him, Prentiss nodded. "Basically."

They didn't say a word for a moment, just watched as their two teammates carried on a conversation they couldn't hear, all the while prepared to step in. Reid was standing tall but slightly huddled in on himself, and when he looked over and met eyes with the two of them, his posture grew tense once more. He placed an arm on Derek's, and very firmly began tugging him towards the nearest exit.

Emily and Hotch watched in near-silence, until the clear doors to the BAU slid shut behind them with a slight whisper. Then Prentiss turned to her superior, a hint of hostility written across her features.

"Is Morgan the one who gave Reid that black eye?"

Hotch internally winced at the reminder. "I have my suspicions, but I'm not sure. Reid didn't _act _like he was afraid of him, but . . ."

Her fists clenched. "Maybe _I_ should go out there."

Hotch immediately shook his head. "Don't." She raised her eyebrows at him, but his resolve held. "They need to settle this, however they intend to go about doing that, and Reid wouldn't appreciate us bursting in on them like overly-concerned parents."

"Morgan might have hurt him – !"

"Prentiss, he's a grown man – and an FBI agent. They both are. They're professionals, and _they_ can handle it."

Emily frowned, resentment marring her usually pretty face. "Doesn't mean I have to be okay with this." She turned to look at him. "Because I'm not, Hotch. I'm not."

He met her eyes briefly. "You don't have to be. Just don't interfere with them. That's an order."

Her eyes flared, and when she spoke, it was with no small amount of fury concealed in a clipped, calm tone. "I think I'll just go work on my paperwork then, _sir._"

Without another word, she turned on her heel and stalked over to the desk, almost as if she intended to destroy the thing.

Hotch watched, vaguely amused by her temper and touched by her obvious concern, before casting one last glance at the door before heading up to his office.

God, he hoped this was a fixable problem.

* * *

><p>It took everything that Derek Morgan had not to jump in surprise as well when his Pretty Boy reacted the way he did – when exactly was the last time that <em>he<em> had scared Reid?

If anything, he was one of the only ones who _was _allowed to touch the genius by default. Had been, really, from nearly the beginning – and certainly after, through all of the rough times . . .

But not today . . . ?

Immediately, the older agent pulled his hand away, and said nothing for a moment as his younger lover stared up at him, breathing slightly hitched and eyes wide with surprise and . . . something else. Something unfamiliar.

Well, familiar _to_ him, and _for_ Reid, but . . .

_ . . . Fear?_

Morgan's breathing hitched.

_Why would he be afraid? Did I really scare him that badly?_

He watched in silence as Reid caught his breath, and then a moment of awkwardness stretched between them as neither said a word. Finally, unable to stand it anymore, Derek reached behind him and pulled out something he'd carried in.

"You left your bag at my place, Spencer."

The young doctor flinched, completely without reason from where Derek was standing, and, concerned, Morgan took a good, long look at the man before him.

_What?_

Spencer's satchel dropped to the floor unnoticed when Morgan's keen eyes caught onto the patch of discolored skin around Reid's eyes. His hand shot out, intending to touch and explore – only to freeze in place when Reid violently recoiled from his touch, something haunted flittering in his eyes.

Reid seemed just as shocked by his reaction as Morgan, and for a moment, his shoulders tensed and his expression stiffened, his inner agent struggling to take control over his baser instincts.

Morgan didn't really care about that – all he cared about was the now-obvious bruising around his boyfriend's face; he wanted to find out who had had the nerve to put it there, and then dedicate some serious time into teaching them why they were to never, _ever _do it again.

His fists clenched as he spoke. "Reid – what happened to your eye?"

* * *

><p>Reid's eyes snapped up to him, a wide variety of emotions circling his face. "W-what?"<p>

Morgan stared. Had he not heard? "Your eye," he said leadenly, trying to conceal his scowl.

Reid's hand unconsciously flittered to his face. "My – I – I m-mean, I'm f-fine, Derek."

Morgan shook his head. "Don't try to play me, man. Your eye – what happened?" His urge to step up and take care of Spencer was overwhelming, but he didn't dare after the reaction earlier.

The young genius just looked at him. "You don't know." It was a statement, not a question.

Morgan shook his head.

Reid blinked, something painful crossing his features, and it was another moment before he spoke again, his face wiped clean of emotions in a way that didn't quite seem normal. "It's nothing, Derek."

Morgan took another step forward. "It's not _nothing, _Spencer."

Reid instinctively took another step back, keeping the distance between them equal, and his eyes flittered nervously over to the other side of the bullpen.

Oh, great. Prentiss and Hotch were watching this, too.

He glanced at Derek, and could see the impatience boiling on the other man's face. Tugging on a lock of his hair, Reid made an instant decision, and, swallowing the slight lump of fear he could feel in his throat, he grabbed Morgan's hand and began tugging him out of the bullpen, ignoring the strange looks they were getting from the other agents around them.

Derek didn't protest, but his body language was positively screaming with the desire to take control, and again Reid's heart fluttered in an unfamiliar feeling on fear as they finally found themselves in the nearest bathroom.

Reid broke away from his friend for a moment to check that they were, indeed, alone, and then turned back to face the confused and irritated protective look on Morgan's face.

_He looks mad. Just like last –_

Reid shook his head, willing himself not to remember again. He couldn't – not here, not now.

Morgan seemed to have caught on that something wasn't right, and he made a conscious effort to keep his hands at his side, rather than running them over Reid like he normally would when his lover was distressed.

The younger man tried to be grateful for the consideration, but all he could think about now that he was here in Derek's presence was those big, wonderful hands . . .

. . . wrapped around his neck, throwing him into the wall, snapping at him, _hurting_ him . . .

He shivered. And that alone seemed to snap Derek back into the present situation again. He took a very small step forward, almost as if he was approaching a skittish animal.

"Reid," he said, his voice softer and more gentle than it had been before. "Tell me what happened to your eye. Please?"

The younger man took in a deep breath, steeling himself, and then let the words fall out in one strangled breath.

"You did."


	5. Then Again

**Author's Note: **Finals are finished, grades are in, Dean's List is mine, and classes don't start up again for another freakin' _month!_ *Punches air* Now all I have to do is figure out a way to keep myself from going insane while waiting for _The Battle of Five Armies, Cinderella, Jurassic World, Star Wars, Star Trek, _and _The Friends Movie_ to come to theaters near me.

Ah, well . . . I have this stuff. And all of you guys. *Smiles* As always, your follows, favorites, PM's and reviews make me squee just a wee bit, and have been helping tremendously in this story – especially so, since I'm still way out of my element. (God, I want to hide in my _Criminal Heroes_ universe again . . .) But of course, **marcallie**, you have _got_ to stop guessing what I'm going to do next! What, are you reading my diary?

I jest . . . I love you all s'much. You make _Five Nights At Freddy's _less terrifying . . . and writing this more fun. So, my apologies for the Author's Note that's half as long as the chapter. It's my intention to post again when I get back from visiting the brother and sister, and am hopefully less asleep and more refreshed. Until then, have another chapter, and have a lovely weekend!

**Warnings:** This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

**Disclaimer:** The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling _Criminal Minds_ as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is _yours._

Do enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five:<strong>

_Then Again_

* * *

><p>A pin dropping could have shattered the silence in the room, but not the tension.<p>

Derek took a visible step back, almost like he'd been slapped, and Reid flinched at his pained reaction, wrapping his arms around his midsection as if to comfort himself.

It was a moment of total, shocked silence before anyone spoke again. As chance would have it, it was Morgan.

"What did you say?"

Reid glanced up, tendrils of his curly hair falling into his eyes, but doing nothing to stifle the heat of his gaze as he stared at the other man. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Frustrated and still very much disturbed from what he thought he'd just heard, Morgan snapped, "_Spencer."_

Reid took a moment before he seemed to regain the ability to speak again. When he spoke, it was in a weary, wary tone. "You asked what happened to my eye."

"Yeah. And you said – "

"That it was _you_, Derek. _You _happened."

Morgan struggled to keep the fury from his voice. "What, _exactly_, do you mean by that, kid?"

He took a step forward without thinking, and Reid instantly raised his hands his chest, defensive and trying to block Morgan from him. When he did so, his shirtsleeves tugged down, and Morgan was suddenly able to see the collection of darkened bruises covering his wrists. Without thinking, his hands shot forward, and he grabbed Reid's arms, pulling the younger man to him in his effort to get a closer look.

In his unforgiving grip, Reid instantly panicked. He tried to rip his arms away, but Morgan's grasp proved to be much stronger, and he whimpered slightly as he squirmed to get away. When Morgan's hands tightened, he squinted his eyes shut, just barely fighting back the memories of last night.

_No, no, no._

Instantly, the hands around him loosened, and Reid pulled arms back, stepping away blindly in his instinctive effort to create some space between him and Morgan.

The older man stared at him as he drew his hands around himself once more, creating a façade of safety.

When Morgan spoke, it was with an edge of hurt in his tone. "I wasn't going to hurt you, kid."

Reid took in a breath, and when he looked at Morgan, his eyes were wider than the other man had ever seen them. His voice cracked as words tumbled past those beautiful lips.  
>"You already did."<p>

Morgan looked shocked.

Reid winced at his expression, and clasped his arms around himself, a show of pseudo-comfort. Undeterred, however, he continued on, just barely maintaining eye-contact.

"L-last night, Derek. We came home late, and – and we had a beer before setting in for the night."

"I think I can remember that," Derek murmured, searching through his brain for the missing to pieces.

When exactly had getting a drink with his boyfriend started yielding cuts and bruises?

Reid frowned, his brow furrowed, and continued, "I – I tried to make us talk about the case – and I know I shouldn't have, not when I could see that you didn't want to talk about it, but I kept p-pushing, and – and . . ."

He trailed off, his eyes haunted, and Derek wanted to kick himself five times over for whatever he had said or done to give his lover's beautiful features that terrible expression.

After a moment, Reid seemed to collect himself, and steeled his frame, spitting out the last bit in a rush.

"You got a bit d-drunk, and kind of . . . grabbed me." He tensed with the memory. "Things . . . escalated, and when you were in the kitchen to grab more alcohol, I left. I spent the night in a hotel." The genius looked up to see Derek shaking his head.

"Things _escalated_? At what point did _escalation_ substitute for – for an _attack_?" Derek felt nauseous just saying the words, even more so as he looked at the marks around his Pretty Boy's hands and face.

Reid tugged nervously on his sleeves, not answering, and Morgan grabbed hold of his chin, tilting it up and forcing the younger man to look at him.

"Reid. _Spencer_. Tell me what happened."

Lips trembling, the conflict was obvious in Reid's shining eyes, and several beats passed before, meekly, he decided to respond.

"You just . . . you p-pushed me up against the wall, and started y-yelling at me. Things about Buford." Reid's face crumpled in disgust as it did every time he had to utter that name, think about that sick evil man. It was only when Morgan shuffled his feet a bit that Reid seemed to remember himself. He shook his head.

"You sort of – you slammed me against the d-door, and . . ." his hands flittered to his neck for a brief instant, and he spilled out, "and I blacked out."

He was a profiler, he should have been a better liar. But Morgan was a profiler, too, and he had seen then slight movement in Reid's fingers, seen him angle his neck as far away from Derek as he could.

Unthinkingly, Morgan's hands again shot forward, and his suspicions were confirmed when Reid flinched away from his touch, when he tugged the genius's collar slightly down and took in the handprints on his neck.

His legs almost gave out beneath him.  
>"I – <em>I<em> did that?"

Unable to meet his eyes, Reid nodded.

"You were . . . out of it, Morgan. Not you, not even close. I don't – I-I _can't_ – "

He stepped back, and Derek did nothing to hold him there, his hands sliding off of Reid's shoulders and falling uselessly to his sides. While his eyes looked clear and breathing was normal, everything inside Morgan was a mess; his thoughts and feelings all clashing together in wave after wave of crushing guilt and frustration, bleeding into the shock that had seeped down his spine and making his stomach turn with every additional mark he could make out on his Pretty Boy.

There were quite a few. And that was with Reid wearing a shirt, doing his best to keep all of them out of sight of his lover . . .

Well, if they even _were_ anymore.

His insides coiling with dread, Morgan looked up, waiting and, practically nauseous, met Reid's eyes; still bright and beautiful, they revealed none of the same feelings that Morgan was sure his did.

He had to take a moment to make sure he was still steady on his feet before he attempted to speak.

"Are we – ?"

He couldn't get the words out, thought he would choke on them if he did.

Reid jerked slightly, and immediately, Morgan wished he could take the moment back, make it so that it had never happened. A few seconds ago, this morning, last night . . .

_None_ of it.

Reid crossed his arms, rubbing up and down as if to warm himself, and took in a deep breath, shuddering slightly. "I d-don't . . . I don't know, Derek."

Morgan flinched back from the words as if they struck him physically, recoiling from the possibilities that they had hidden beneath them.

He could lose his Spencer? His boyfriend, his best friend, his little brother and catch of a lifetime? His Pretty Boy?

His legs felt like giving out again, and Morgan reached out blindly, stumbling, his hand finding purchase on Spencer's shoulder.

His sore one. Reid winced, and tensed under the older agent's fingers, but forced himself not to pull back, knowing that that would be only more devastating to something already going horribly wrong. He looked up, searching Morgan's face, trying not to be hurt when Derek couldn't even meet his eyes.

"I don't _want_ to lose you, D-Derek. But I . . ."

_But I what? How exactly does one tell someone they've cared for, loved, that the very sight of them now ignites fear, and not pleasure?_

How could he tell Morgan that, even though he knew that the man would never hurt him, well . . . technically the bruises were there to contradict him now? That he wanted to back up and run away with every fiber of his being right now, and not even be standing here, talking about this? That Morgan's touch wasn't making him want to get closer, but flee instead?

Reid shook his head, trying to bite back the tears he could feel forming there.

The entire time, Morgan stared at the floor, the wall, the little window in the corner . . . anything but the person he loved.

The person he wasn't sure loved him anymore.

Morgan stepped back, disentangling himself from Spencer in any way possible, _every_ way possible, and walking so fast that it was nearly a run, he fled to the door.

He paused for just a second before pushing it open, wiping his face clean of all emotion, pretending that his heart wasn't being broken from the inside out, pretending that everything was fine, that he was fine, that nothing unusual had gone down in this bathroom.

Pretending that he didn't hear the tiny, strangled voice whispering, _pleading, _"Derek."

Steeling himself, Morgan pushed through and left, the wooden door swinging shut behind him with a quiet whisper.

Then, and only then, did Reid finally let the tears fall.


	6. Not Now

**Author's Note: **Well, to quote one anonymous reviewer . . . nothing ruins a story like the author not updating!

Excuses, excuses . . . Sorry about the long wait. I've been in the middle of nowhere, sealed away by the snow with my parentals, baby siblings, hours' worth of DVDs and SO MUCH CHEESE. They might not be here for Chrsitmas, but I squeezed in every second of awesomeness I could with those lunatics . . . *Sighs* And now I have another week to go before family-time.

. . . Ignore me, I'm hungry.

Anyhoo . . . Thanks a million squillion bajillion for all of your AWESOME reviews! Seriously, I've never had this many so early on, and I can't believe how much people _seem_ to be enjoying the story. Seriously, you guys, you're really amazing and all. It makes every day that isn't Christmas feel a heck of a lot more like it. I love ya dearly for that.

Enough babbling, I know that's not what you came here for. *Smiles*

**Warnings:** This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

**Disclaimer:** The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling _Criminal Minds_ as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is _yours._

Do enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six:<strong>

_Not Now_

* * *

><p>In the bullpen, Hotch kept a wary eye on the figure of Derek Morgan as he stalked through, hostility radiating off of every pore, and a very serious "don't fuck with me" expression on his face.<p>

No one did. However, he did catch quite a bit of attention from other BAU members – the entire floor _was_ profilers, after all – as he stormed into the break room. As soon as the door slammed behind him, whispers were flitting about, everyone wondering what had the resident bad-ass in such a temper.

Hotch, unfortunately, had his suspicions. And they were bad, every single one of them. He glanced towards the anteroom that lead to the outer hallway, waiting to see if Reid would make an appearance, his concern growing exponentially when the young genius was nowhere to be found.

Hearing a small cough behind him, Aaron glanced over his shoulders to see one David Rossi, who was watching him with something akin to a fatherly expression on his face. Hotch raised his eyebrows, and the older profiler stepped forward.

"Leave 'em be, Aaron."

Hotch shook his head. "Dave, I don't know what you're getting at – "

The other man gave a wry smile. "Oh, really? Let me clarify, then; Morgan and Reid have been together for years, and they love and trust one another. Let _them_ work it out."

Hotch snarled, "He had _bruises_ on his hands and face, David."

"Did he ask for help?"

"That doesn't matter – !"

"Yes, it does." Rossi spoke with a calm that came easily to a man of his years. "I know exactly how you feel, Aaron; I've been in this situation before." He paused. "Well, a similar one, at least."

Hotch gritted his teeth, and Rossi continued speaking, trying to calm him. "Reid's a genius, Aaron. And a profiler; he's smart, strong, and quick as a whip. You trust him?"

"I do," Hotch said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Rossi nodded. "And Derek Morgan is capable, deductive, and caring. He's kind. And the first person you chose to lead this team when you thought you had to step down. You trust him." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," came the antagonized answer.

"They're both BAU members, Hotch. And adults. Your friends. And you only have to _look_ at them to see how much they care for one another." He waited a moment for his coworker to agree, and then finished, "So let _them_ handle this. They're more than capable. And, more than that, it's none of your business."

Hotch was gripping the handrail so hard his knuckles were turning white. "If he's hurting Spencer – "

"Then the kid will come to us, and we'll help handle it from there. But not a moment before." Rossi chided, a moment later placing a hand on Aaron's shoulder in a comforting manner. "In the meantime, do _your job_ and let it go. It's nothing to be concerned about until one of them tells us it is, and you can't be objective right now."

He glanced significantly at Hotch with those words, clapped him once more on the shoulder, and turned, walking back towards his office.

Hotch barely heard him; Morgan had emerged from the breakroom, a cup of coffee in hand, and was sitting at his desk, flipping through files with such ferocity that Hotch wouldn't be at all surprised if _they_ showed up with bruises next.

He shook his head, and forced himself to turn around, and walk away from the situation. Into his office, where there was his own pile of notes from this latest case.

Hotch sat down, and, trying to do as the older and wiser profiler had suggested, put his feelings on the backburner, and got to work, waiting out the clock.

* * *

><p>It was nearly an hour later that Spencer Reid found his way back into the bullpen, walking quickly and nervously, with his head down the entire time. Even so, it wasn't hard to spot the dried tear tracks cutting through his cheeks, to see how reluctant his form was from the way he curled in on himself, long pianists' fingers picking at the fabric on his shirt.<p>

From inside of his office, Hotch watched as his subordinate took a seat and, instead of flourishing through his work as he normally would have, stared at the computer screen on his desk with deadened eyes, his form pale and looking utterly drained.

Picking up the office phone that lay slightly to his right, Hotch dialed Reid's extension, and simply said "My office, please. Now."

He took a moment to look at the bewildered and slightly fearful tensing of Reid's shoulders through the blinds, and then focused very hard on his work, pretending he was too absorbed to see, out of the corner of his eye, the young genius making his way up the stairs. Only when his office door opened with a slight creak and then closed with a whisper did Hotch finally look up.

The change was unbelievable. Reid stood before him, quite obviously uncomfortable in the office – maybe even in his own skin – his hands wrapped protectively around his midsection and his eyes flashing darkly beneath the more obvious shiner he was still sporting. Hotch had to force back a growl when he saw the disarray of Reid's shirt, which showed more bruising on his neck, and –

Wait. Were those handprints?

His hackles immediately raised, and before him, Reid tensed, obviously thinking he was the one whom the sudden display of aggression was directed towards.

Seeing his flinch, Hotch forced himself to calm down, and sat back fully in the chair, not breaking eye contact with the young man before him. It took a few moments, and the silence stretched out uncomfortably, unbearably, before someone spoke.

"S-sir? You needed to see me."

_I needed to make sure you were okay._ Oh, but he couldn't say that. That wouldn't fly over in any office setting, especially not one with Reid.

Hotch paused. "I . . . I had to ask whether or not there's an issue between you and Agent Morgan."

Reid raised his eyebrows slightly, perplexed but calculating, and Hotch was quick to cover, "He came back from his _talk_ with you in a mood; he's secluded himself, won't speak with anyone, and gives that death glare to every person to come even close to him. He seems quite . . . aggressive. Overly so."

Reid shrugged, but there was nothing easy about his posture. "I'm not really sure what to say, Hotch."

"The truth would be an excellent place to start."

A slight flash of anger across those delicate features, and then, "We just _talked_."

"About what?"

"Things that in no way involve the BAU, and are therefore none of your concern . . . sir."

Hotch fought not to rise from his seat, seeing that the man before him, though angry, was still very much in distress-mode. "It _is_ my concern if it's going to affect the team dynamic when I want us to work together."

Reid's shoulder's stiffened. "It's not going to be an issue, sir."

Hotch raised his eyebrow. "Really?"

"Really." The reply was as stiff as Reid's body.

"So, later today, when I send you and Morgan in to interview Mason Randall, you're both going to be able to handle it professionally? As good as you usually are? On top of things?"

Reid's teeth were clenched. "Yes."

"Because I don't – "

"_Hotch," _Reid suddenly cut in, a veritable snarl in his voice as he looked at his superior, a level of contempt in his soft features. "What Morgan as I discussed is in no way _any_ of _your_ business. It was personal, and very much so. As sorry as I am that it had to take place on work property, it couldn't be avoided. In the future, it will be, and you have my personal guarantee that this business – our _private_ business – will in no way affect our separate performances on the job."

Slightly stunned, Hotch's inner profiler still managed to catch onto one of the words.

"Separate?"

Reid froze.

"I can't just be asking as your friend, Reid, I have to ask as your boss as well. Can you and Morgan work together, in the same room, as a _team_, in a functional manner? Because you're the two I want to interview our unsub. And either you're both in there, or neither of you is."

Unconsciously, Reid's eyes flitted out the window, into the bullpen, towards the break room, landing on the form of one Derek Morgan.

This case had gotten so . . . personal for the man. It meant a lot to him, because of the subject matter, because of what was in those files he was going over right now. He _had _ to work on the case, _had_ to talk to the victims, _had_ to be there when Randall was brought in.

And now, even as the thought made him a bit morose, Reid knew that Derek _had_ to be on the interview with their unsub. It was more personal for him than anyone else, and if he wasn't part of the ending for this case, then he wasn't going to get his closure.

And he _had _to get it. For his sake, for the team's sake . . . for the sake of their relationship, even.

At the sound of a throat clearing, Reid turned, embarrassed by how lost he got in his thoughts sometimes. Hotch was watching him, taking in every detail of his movement, his figure, the way his eyes had slightly glazed over . . .

Reid shook himself out of it, and nodded, as if confirming something to himself.

"No," he said, his voice sounding slightly choked – something Hotch took note of and filed away for later. "No, there won't be any issues, Hotch. We'll be fine."

At his words, the older man stood, and walked over to Reid, placing his hands on his shoulders and waiting until the genius looked up and met his eyes.

"Reid," he said, his voice softer than anyone would have ever guessed possible for the notoriously stern Unit Chief, "I'm not asking as a team member, or as your supervisor anymore. _Now_ I am asking as your friend."

Reid's eyes searched his face, trembling lips the only sign of his inner turmoil, and for a moment, Hotch thought he had broken through.

But then, the younger man lifted Hotch's hands away from his neck, and crossed his arms protectively, shaking his head.

"This doesn't concern you, Hotch. I'm grateful for your help, and I know who to call, but . . . Derek and I will sort this out for myself."

And there it was. _Derek._

The first time Reid had ever slipped up in the office and called Morgan something other than . . . well, Morgan.

Hotch did his best not to let his surprise show, and Reid, also noticing the screw-up, paled instantly, his eyes widening to impossible sizes. He watched his boss, whole body suddenly tensed and on-edge again, as if he expected Hotch to leap over the desk and attack him for saying the wrong thing.

But Aaron wasn't focusing on Reid's loose tongue; he was focusing on the reaction of his youngest agent. Not just the surprise, the fatigue . . . but the fear. A fear that he had never seen present in the office before, one of being harmed in a way that went far beyond reprimands or stern looks.

The fear of pain.

Hotch's eyes again narrowed in on the slight bruising he could see on Reid's wrists, the blackened eye that was somewhat better covered, and – what he just now noticed in the somewhat softer light of his own office – the shadows that looked suspiciously like marks wrapped around the younger man's throat.

Inside, his hackles bared. Outside, not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.

Hotch raised his hand. "You may go, Agent Reid," he said, a clipped tone making the words sound harsher than he meant to.

Reid flinched at the tone, and scurried away, his inner turmoil clearly written across his face for anyone to see. He swept quickly across the room, and then out of the BAU doors, destination unknown.

This didn't go unnoticed, and both Morgan and Prentiss glanced up at Hotch's office, wondering what the hell he had said to their resident genius to gain a reaction like that.

But it was Morgan's eyes who held Hotch's, each mustering the other and sending out their own messages of alpha-authority.

Each one thinking, _I'll kill you for hurting him._

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Endnote: <strong>You know, proof-reading this, it's kinda coming off like one of those Hotch-jealousy fics . . . hmm. Not exactly my intention ( I do enjoy the Hotch/Reid slash, but I don't write it) but I think I'll leave it in there for now. Just for funzies.


	7. Never Again

**Author's Note: **Well . . . it's not the typical Christmas gift, I'll admit, but . . . hey, 'tis the thought that counts, right?

N'aww, I'm sure some people here don't celebrate this particular upcoming holiday . . . so, Happy Saturnalia, Happy Chanukah, Happy Kwaanza, annnnnnnd Happy Boxing Day! Almost. *Smiles*

Another long-winded chapter of talking, alas. People responded so mixedly to the idea of some potential Hotch-slash that I was a bit confused myself, and had to make some edits. In the end, I'll say this; those of you who shop Morgan and Reid, continue to do so; those of you what want to see Hotch pining after our genius? I won't write anything to stop you.

Happy holidays, my loves. i shall see you before the New Year, I PROMISE.

**Warnings:** This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

**Disclaimer:** The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling _Criminal Minds_ as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is _yours._

Do enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven:<strong>

_Never Again_

* * *

><p>Inside the same bathroom where he and Morgan had had their <em>private discussion<em> earlier, Reid kneeled before one of the toilets and emptied his stomach.

_God. _

He hadn't been in denial of his and Morgan's relationship, would never have pretended or lied to anyone, had they inquired about the two. But because he and his boyfriend had always kept the touching to a minimum in the workplace, and because they had never _come out_ and _declared_ it to anyone, well . . . no one had ever thought to ask.

And now, because he wasn't thinking, because he was an _idiot_, he had slipped up _in front of their boss, _of all people.

And God only knew how Hotch would handle it.

Reid crouched on the floor, body even paler than usual, shaking from dry heaves, and barely biting back tears.

How had everything gone so wrong?

* * *

><p>Hotch didn't even have to call; Morgan stalked up to his office like an animal hunting his prey, and stood just inside of the door, arms folded in a clear <em>don't fuck with me <em>manner.

The two of them stared – _glared_ – at one another for just a moment, before Hotch got up quietly and shut the door. Turning around, he gestured pointedly for Morgan to take a seat.

The younger man continued standing, shaking his head in a clear act of defiance. And, struggling not to let the attitude get to him, Hotch shrugged as if he really couldn't care less, and then sat down himself.

It was an immeasurable amount of time before either man spoke.

"I need to know – "

"What the – ?"

Both paused, and, finally, holding up a hand, Hotch started again. "I need to know what happened between you and Agent Reid, Morgan."

Noticing the way his subordinate immediately stiffened at the mention of his partner's name, Hotch pushed on, "You both seem distracted this morning, and I can't have two of my best – "

"Cut the crap, Hotch." Morgan cut in harshly, his face half-hidden by the flickering shadows in the small room. "_Agent_ Reid? _Two of your best?_ You're trying to make this about work, and we both know it has nothing to do with that, man."

Hotch raised in an eyebrow. "Are you implying – ?"

"I'm not implying anything. I'm _saying_ that it's none of your business."

Hotch shook his head. "When it starts affecting the team dynamic, it _becomes _my business."

Morgan clearly disagreed. "It's not affecting the team, Hotch. No one else – "

"Has noticed? Bothered to look? _Cares?_" It took everything the older man had not to jump right out of his chair right there and shake the pig-headed youth before him. Instead, he calmly, if a little stiffly, waved his arm over to the window in his office, and pointed through the blinds to the BAU below. "Think again, Morgan. Take a second look. The first thing Emily did when she came in this morning was ask me what was wrong with Reid – who had been here for hours by then. David's already stopped me from interfering when the two of you disappeared for half an hour. JJ thinks that her son's godfather might be feeling sick, and Garcia's been sending out messages and threatening to bring in cookies all day. You haven't associated with anyone besides myself and Reid this entire day, and yet everyone can tell that something's wrong. We're _all_ profilers, Morgan, and you're not as good at hiding things as you seem to think."

Derek's face flickered, unreadable, and for a moment, Hotch thought he might have broken through to the man. But the dispassionate shake of his head let the Unit Chief know that he still wasn't getting in.

"It's nothing, Hotch. We're . . . working on it. Just, let it go – please."

His voice cracked slightly with the plea, but Hotch knew that this was one time he couldn't ignore something big, not when it was potentially harmful, potentially _scarring_, to one of his agents.

He spoke in a quiet tone, still trying to keep the barely-concealed anger in check. "When one of my agents shows up covered in bruises and so jumpy he can't see straight, I _can't _let it go."

There was no mistaking the look of guilt that covered Morgan's face – and even though he'd already suspected, the actual confirmation was more than Hotch was prepared for. A feeling of simultaneous nausea and fury twisted his gut, and he only kept his composure and remained sitting in the chair by clutching the edge of his desk so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Morgan was unable to meet his superior's eyes as he confessed, "We . . . we got into it a bit last night."

"A bit," Hotch repeated, his voice hard and cold. Disbelieving. "And yet, today, only one of you showed up with bruises on his body."

Just as quickly as it had seemed like the darker agent was opening up, he shut right back down. "Hotch, _don't."_

"Don't? _Don't?_ Don't _what?_" The older man's eyes flashed dangerously, and this time, he did stand up from his desk. "Don't notice, don't call you on it, don't _care?_ Morgan, one of my agents – one of my _friends_ – is hurt, and you want my to step down?"

"I want you to let _me_ handle my own problems!"

Hotch snorted. "Yes, we've all seen how you _handle _things."

"Fuck you," Morgan hissed, posture poised for attack. Hotch responded in kind, his own body tensing as his hands curled into fists at his side.

"What? Are you going to attack me too, Morgan?"

Something murderous flashed over the agent's face, and he began to advance, a predatory look in his eye. "You shouldn't have said that."

Hotch scoffed. "Why? Because now you're angry again? I'm not Reid, Morgan; I can actually fight you back. You'd have to work a Hell of a lot harder to hurt me."

"You're starting to make me want to, Hotch."

"Good. Just _try._"

* * *

><p>Nearly half an hour had passed in the bullpen before a thin, young man came slinking back in, looking as skittish as a newborn deer and hiding his face behind the tangled tendrils of his hair.<p>

Reid tried to scoot back to his desk unnoticed, but was intercepted in a flash by one Penelope Garcia.

"We need to talk, Boy Wonder."

Unable to do anything about the rather tight grip on his arm – who knew someone who painted their nails ten different colors had a grip like the Hulk? – Reid stumbled along after the bright woman until they had reached what she liked to call her 'lair' down the hall. Once inside, Garcia immediately plopped the genius down on a chair and seated herself, crossing her ankles and rocking slightly from side to side as she stared at him.

Uncomfortable under the gaze, Reid squirmed, his fingers playing with the fabric on his knees, until a gentle hand on his leg made him stop. Looking up, Spencer's eyes were met with kind one behind a pair of purple glasses.

"Reid . . . honey, what's wrong?"

He just stared at her, wary, not saying a word. She pressed further. "Sweetie, something's been wrong with you and Derek all morning."

Reid bit his lip, and shook his head, trying to avert his eyes again. He was thwarted by a firm – albeit gentle – hand on his chin, forcing him to keep looking at her.

"Please, please tell me; let me help."

The prickling of tears in his eyes was the only warning. And then Reid leaned forward into Garcia's arms, his entire body shaking as he struggled to cap his emotions.

And the technical analyst didn't lean away from the touch – she wrapped her arms around Reid's back and held him close to her, running fingers through his hair and whispering little cooing noises that, if Reid were actually feeling up to it, the young genius surely would have pointed out weren't actually words.

For a few moments, they remained like that, trying to forget all of their problems in the kind of embrace that only really close friends actually know how to give, and only those truly in need really know how to accept.

Eventually, there was a slight shifting, and Reid turned his head to look at Garcia fully. His eyes searched her, looking for something – what, she didn't know – and apparently found it, because, after swallowing tightly a few times, he spoke.

"I – I t-think I might have – " he gulped, teeth chattering. "I might have ruined things with Morgan."

Garcia paused, more than a little taken aback. As far as the BAU's resident genius and her own hunk of burning love went, well . . . she'd had her suspicions. But never any confirmation. Was Reid . . . ?

"What do you mean?" she asked instead.

Reid's lips twitched slightly in thought. "We had a . . . a fight last night. And it sort of c-carried into work. T-this morning."

Garcia nodded slightly. "I was wondering why Hotch called Morgan into his office."

Reid's entire body language changed. He jolted up from the chair, face rapidly draining of color, and looked at Garica, eyes wide and frantic. He shot out a hand, grabbing her shoulder tightly, and when he spoke, his voice sounded choked, desperate.

"Hotch – and Morgan – in his – in h-his office?" He gasped out.

Having no idea why her little kitten was acting like someone had died, Garcia simply nodded, in shock.

Without a second thought, Reid released his grip and spun around, running out of the office so fast that Garcia swore he left her spinning for a moment. She didn't even have time to call to him, ask what was wrong, why was he acting like this now?

Instead, taking a moment to get over the extreme reaction, the technical analyst shook out her hands, and turned back to her computers, swiping at the monitor until it gave her a full-span view of the bullpen.

Then, she sat back and waited.

* * *

><p>Reid burst into the bullpen only moments after fleeing Garcia's office, calling a lot of unwanted attention to himself when the glass doors slammed open so hard that they might have shattered.<p>

Not that it mattered to him – nothing did right then, except for stopping whatever was going on between his boss and his – his –

_his lover._

It made Reid's heart stop to think of it like that, because he knew it was all messed up, that _they_ were all messed up, but he couldn't let Morgan's job – his _life_ – be affected by this. By him.

He took the stairs two at a time, again ignoring the looks he was sure he was receiving, and thrust Hotch's door open frantically, stumbling inside.

Two men looked up at him, surprise replacing the fury that had been carved over every inch of their faces.

Reid took no notice of this. _"Don't!"_ he gasped out, snapping the door shut behind him and taking a moment to lean against it, forcing his exhaustion back.

"What?"

The voice was familiar, but he wasn't sure whose. Panting slightly, Reid took half a second to glance through the tangled tendrils of his hair, watching as Hotch and Morgan both took steps towards him, mixtures of concern and fright flickering over their features.

Reis stumbled back, pushing himself further into the hard surface behind him as though it would provide protection. "Please, please _don't,_" he gasped again.

A pause, and then, . . .

"Don't _what_, Pretty Boy?"

Morgan. Definitely him. Reid's insides quivered – whether in pain or apprehension, the genius really couldn't tell.

He forced himself to look away from the direction where the voice was coming, and instead focused all of his energy on Hotch.

"Hotch, d-don't. You _can't. _D-Derek, it's – it's not his f-fault."

Hotch raised an eyebrow as the younger man stumbled into him, hands grasping at his collar desperately, a wild look in his eye.

"What can't I do, Reid?" he asked gently.

"Don't punish him – he s-shouldn't be in trouble. It was me, all m-me."

"What was?" Both men asked, but again, Reid only focused on Hotch.

"We had a – a f-fight. Last night" Somewhere to the right of them, they heard Morgan's intake of breath, but both men continued to ignore him.

Reid's fingers grew tighter on Hotch's collar. "Hotch, it was _my_ fault – none of this would have happened if not for me. And I'm okay, there's nothing bad, but –" he gulped roughly "please, _please_ don't punish Morgan over this. It's _not his fault."_

* * *

><p>Lies. It was nothing but lies spilling from those beautiful lips of the beautiful man he loved.<p>

And yet, Morgan found himself to shocked to say a word, as Reid's little declaration dissolved into desperate tears, and Hotch allowed his subordinate to rest his forehead on his shoulder for a few moments, collecting himself.

Both seemed to have completely forgotten that Morgan was in the room – which suited him just fine. After several minutes of silence, Morgan quietly stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him and turning to face the bullpen – and the many agents below who were all staring up at Hotch's office while trying to pretend that they weren't.

"Need something?" Morgan asked gruffly, and the change was immediate; people went back to their conversations, their phones, their computers, and, in general, their jobs.

Wiping off a tear he didn't realize was on his face, Morgan stomped down the steps and quickly retreated to his desk. Collapsing down there, the SSA breathed in deep, trying to collect his distorted thoughts.

There was no doubt in his mind that he and Hotch had been this close to having it out; a full-on, all-out brutal physical fistfight in the middle of their work.

Someone would have been fired.

Someone, meaning himself.

And yet, Reid – the boy he loved beyond a doubt, the man he had hurt – had come in and taken the bullet for him.

Morgan shook his head. _Not literally, of course. _But Reid had stopped the fight from happening, had directed Hotch's attention, had shouldered the blame and made himself the target.

Hotch would never hurt the young man, of course – _of course_, Morgan reflected bitterly – but Reid was still getting him to leave Morgan alone, putting himself in a position to be vulnerable or potentially reprimanded.

Well, certainly that.

And here _he_ was, storming out on his lover, refusing to talk to anyone, and throwing a hissy fit by shutting down because – because what? He'd gotten dunk last night and attacked Reid, and the man was having a hard time forgiving him?

Morgan shook his head, snorting at himself derisively. "You're an idiot," he mumbled to himself, stopping at his desk, and glancing once more back up at Hotch's office.

The blinds were closed. He couldn't see a thing.

Newly determined, Derek sat down at his desk and began planning.


	8. Time Once More

**Author's Note: **puh-LEASE tell me that all of y'all had a better Christmas than I did? 'Cuz mine was pretty superb, and I'm hoping that everyone else's seasons were so full of balloons and joy!

Okay, so, some news . . . this chapter literally ensconces the last part of my dream I remember before waking up. I feel like there was something more, and I know I'm not going to leave the story like this, but . . . well, that's just it. I have to make up some sort of ending, and it's coming soon. Maybe a few more chapters . . . I wanna get back to my "Criminal Hereos" sometime in January, too . . . Funzies.

Anyhoo . . . Thank you several metric tons to the loyal few who continue to leave their thoughts and opinions in the reviews. I'm glad that people seem to be okay with the darker tones of this story, and as always, welcome the few who have pointed out errors. Fear not, the spelling has been FIXED.

Thanks for making this last Tuesday of the New Year so bloody fantastic.

**Warnings:** This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

**Disclaimer:** The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling _Criminal Minds_ as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is _yours._

Do enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight:<strong>

_Time Once More_

* * *

><p>Reid stood nervously outside of one of the BAU's many interrogation cells, refusing to look inside just yet. He was leaning against the door, picking at his fingernails and trying to keep his mind focused on the profile, instead of the million other thoughts that were running through his head, vying for his attention.<p>

Thoughts that concerned the other two men waiting outside in the hallway, having a private conversation before the interview with Mason Randall would commence.

He had been watching Hotch and Morgan for the past few minutes, attempting to profile their conversation from the body language; so far, though, both men were proving to be quite good at what they did, and Reid was having trouble reading a thing.

Hotch was tense, that much was obvious; even up in his office when he had allowed Reid a few moments of vulnerability before he could collect himself, the other man's body had been stiff with tension, his voice hoarse as he asked Reid again and again if he was okay. Reid frowned slightly, concentrating. Hotch was practically oozing the protective signal, defensive mode; it was the same way he looked whenever he brought Jack into work. Only . . . even more so, if that was possible.

Reid shook his head, and turned his attention to the other man conversing with his boss.

Morgan's entire frame was locked down; everything from his tightly shut mouth and clenched hands and shoulders _screamed_ to leave him alone. And yet, standing so close with their superior and obviously not getting the personal space he was in need of, Morgan still seemed to be retaining his calm.

As if feeling the gaze upon him, Morgan's eyes shot over, and met with Reid's.

A sharp pang of heat, fear, and familiarity piercing his gut, Reid instantly looked away, fighting not to blush as he once again collected his thoughts.

Another moment later, the door to the anteroom swung open, and the rest of the BAU team filed in. Emily, Rossi, and Hotch immediately went to stand in front of the large interrogation window, observing their suspect. JJ and Garcia went by Reid, each giving him encouraging smiles. Morgan stood alone in the center of the room, trying to meet Spencer's eyes – but the younger man forced himself not to look up.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Hotch spoke. "Morgan, Reid –do you have any strategy?"

Both men looked at each other, neither one wanting to be the first to speak. Reid's eyes were appraising, while Morgan was diminutive.

After a moment, the latter opened his mouth.

"We were thinking," he started cautiously, eyes never leaving Reid's as though seeking permission to even speak, "of a sort of opposites-attract guise. Good cop, bad cop, maybe."

Hotch nodded, not missing the heavy way in which two of his subordinates were regarding one another.

"I was going to try and play the more aggressive role, and make sure Randall knows that I'm there for business only." Morgan paused. "Reid, was, ah . . ." he swallowed, suddenly unable to continue.

Of course, Reid was no novice at this, and he had long-ago seen exactly where this plan was heading. He picked up where his coworker left off.

"I look a lot like Randall's victims," he said simply, ignoring the horrified looks from JJ and Garcia. He pushed himself off of the wall, and tried to stand as tall as his words.

"I'm unimposing, quiet, and clearly not the obvious alpha-male like Morgan – thus, I'd make a much better proverbial 'good cop' than he would. What we were thinking," he continued softly, eyes whispering towards Morgan for a brief second before again facing the door, "was that I could go in and, ah . . . be a distraction."

Morgan seemed to have found his voice again. "If he's paying more attention to Reid than to me, he won't be as focused on the interview, and he _can_ slip up."

Hotch nodded. "The profile says that Mason would bury all of the kids he abducted in one spot so that he could visit them as often as possible. It makes sense – if he gives us one clue, we can find them _all._" Thinking for a moment, the Unit Chief turned again towards the team's genius.

"Reid?"

When the young man glanced up, startled by his almost-tender voice, Hotch continued, concern audible in every word. "Are you going to be okay with this?'

Though he didn't say it, Reid knew that Hotch was asking about more than pretending to be more docile just to get the attentions of an unsub; he also meant _Will you be okay working with Derek?_

And, in the end, it didn't matter how he really felt, because the answer to both questions was the same.

Reid forced a tired smile onto his face, and shrugged his shoulders, looking Hotch square in the eye. "I'm fine."

He didn't really have a choice, did he?

* * *

><p>Slipping somewhat easily into agent-mode, it was Morgan who entered the room first, stalking in like a hunter before prey and seating himself roughly before Reid had even had time to catch the swinging door behind him.<p>

Mason Randall. Almost exactly the type of guy someone would expect to see in jail for the crimes with which he was charged; tall, thin, with a narrow face surrounded by dank, greasy curls, he was far from handsome, and even more far from youthful. The man was in his late fifties, and charged with the abduction and murder of eight separate children.

Even though they were sure it was almost twenty.

Morgan had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from growling. One word. All they needed was a single word, and they would be able to get the rest of the bodies, and have enough proof to send Mason to the deepest, darkest part of prison for the rest of his life.

He looked at the man – if one were generous enough to call him that – before him, trying to control his seething temper. Not that it was getting any easier, with the way Mason was ignoring his gaze and had instead focused entirely on Reid, his interest alerted and a sinister smirk crossing his features.

"Randall," Morgan started, feeling a pulse of temper where there shouldn't have been one.

"Hmm?" The convict responded, his gaze still uncomfortably keen on Reid. The genius shifted in his chair, obviously feeling smothered, and the protective instinct that had grown so much stronger since their relationship had begun surged in Morgan.

His voice was tight, clipped. "You know why we're here."

Mason's eyes flickered to his for just a moment. "To wish me a good morning?" He snorted, eyeing Morgan in disgust before again focusing on Spencer. As an afterthought, he added, "Although . . . a few minutes alone with this one would make the day _so_ much brighter." He smiled. "What's your name, pretty boy?"

Reid, in keeping with the part he was supposed to playing, said nothing. And while Morgan could tell some of his lack of response was from acting, he could also see the nervous set of Reid's shoulders, the tense way in which his hands were gripping his arms as he crossed them.

Resisting the urge to reassure his best friend and more, Morgan allowed a scowl to pass his face, and when he spoke his voice was low, tight with anger.  
>"He doesn't have a name, Randall. It's just you and me in here; so why don't we have a little chat?"<p>

"Such poor manners," Mason tsk'ed, his eyes never leaving their target. "You would think, with such a beauty here before us, Agent Morgan, that you could at least _try_ to act like a gentleman."

Morgan stiffened. "Back off. _Now._"

Smiling victoriously, Mason continued to speak in his soft, arrogant tone. "He doesn't sound like he knows how to treat you, pretty boy." He paused, licking his lips in delight when Reid squirmed uncomfortably, and leaned in even closer, baring his teeth.  
>"<em>I<em> would know exactly how to treat you."

"You mean by abducting him?" Morgan cut in, unable to watch the intimidation-play going on any longer. Underneath the table, his hands clenched into fists.

At last, Mason turned away from Reid and looked at Morgan, that sickening smile on his face. "Go on," he said, his tone infuriatingly light, jovial.

"You abduct them – kids, I mean," Morgan stated, sparing a second's glance at Spencer before returning to the situation at hand. "Kidnap them, keep them for days. Talk to them. Beat them." He swallowed, his voice audibly constricting as he continued, "You rape them."

Mason nodded along with everything as Morgan spoke, his fascinated gaze unwavering. "Yes, yes I do, Agent. Apparently, you don't think it was as much fun as I did."

Morgan's stomach turned. He shook his head, a tough look still on his face, but insides churning with nausea. "I also didn't think evil had such a vile face."

Mason hissed, almost affronted by the insult. Encouraged by his reaction, Morgan continued, "Of course, it's only made more hideous by the things you did."

"The things _I did,"_ Mason spat, trying the words on his tongue. "I did to them what was done to me, Agent. Isn't that the way the world is going, around and around, unstopping, never changing, the same bad things happening to people who will do bad things to other people?" He paused, and somehow, had managed to find his grin again. "I bet you've done some naughty things to innocent people, right, Agent?" Again, his eyes flickered towards Reid, and Morgan couldn't help the fury that twisted his gut, burning like a hot knife.

"You sick son of a bitch," Morgan snarled, only to feel a hand on his thigh – a very light touch, as though afraid he might lash out. Surprised, Morgan let his eyes shoot to Reid for just a heartbeat, and drank in the other man's impassive appearance.

His sweet, kind, soft lover met his gaze coolly, his eyes flickering with compassion. Spencer gave the tiniest shake of his head.

Under the table, invisible to Mason, Reid's hands rubbed a small circle into Morgan's skin, affectionate, steady. Calming.

_Not worth it. Never. _

It was as if he radiated peace. As if he was sharing it, spreading the feeling all around him in a blanket of love.

Taking in a deep breath, Morgan turned back to their unsub, and met his infuriating grin with a cold look.

"Not everyone who suffers as a child grows up to hurt others, Randall." He was proud of the way his voice didn't catch in his throat this time.

Mason, apparently, didn't notice. Or didn't care.

The man's eyes lit up, and he leaned over the table, uncomfortably close to Morgan. "Oh. Oh-ho-ho! Do you say that because you were hurt as a child, Agent? Were you abducted? Beaten?" He leaned in closer still. _"Mo-les-ted?"_

Seeing Morgan's ever-so-slight wince at that, Mason knew he had won. He hovered over the table, every fiber of his being tense with excitement.

"Big, bad FBI agent was abused as a child, and now he hunts bad nasty people so that they can't be so bad and nasty anymore, is that it?" he chuckled dryly. "But none of his friends know that he's just as filthy and used as the little kids he tries to save. That he's a _victim. _That he tries to overcompensate his feelings of uselessness by fucking someone half his age."

Unconsciously, Morgan's eyes again flickered towards his lover, and Mason, of course, noticed.

"You call me vile, but you're doing the exact same thing yourself, Agent. And judging from those bruises the pretty boy's trying to hide, you're not being as nice about it as I am. At least _I_ put them out of their misery at some point."

Mason turned his body fully, effectively shutting Morgan out as he stared at Reid instead. "Tell me, gorgeous; do you wanna be put out of your misery?"

His hand shot out, and was gripping Reid's collarbone before either of the BAU man could so much as blink. Reid flinched openly at the foreign, aggressive touch, and tried to pull away – but it was useless. Mason's fingers tightened roughly, and he jerked, half-pulling the genius across the table, until he was face-to-face with their prisoner, so close that their breath was mingling.

"Want me to make sure Mr. Big-Bad-FBI-Guy can't hurt you any more, darling? I can end it right now, walk out with you in my arms, go to my cabin, and we'll never have to see another soul again. Just you, me, and all eternity, Beautiful."

His hands began to squeeze, and Reid's own arms shot out, searching for anything to grip, scrabbling in his desperation.

As it happened, he found purchase on the solid form of one Derek Morgan, standing next to him.

For a few seconds that felt like an eternity, Reid ripped his eyes away from the black, soulless depths of Mason Randall, and looked at Derek instead. And the older man found he couldn't look away.

The pain reflected in those hazel orbs, the fear . . . the pleading, agony of emotion after haphazard emotion . . .

He shuddered.

It was the same look Reid had given him last night.

And this time, he was going to do something about it.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Endnote: <strong>Buhm-buhm-BAHHH.


	9. Break Before Fall

**Author's Note: **My apologies for not posting this yesterday, when I actually and it hot offa the presses . . . got a wee bit distracted with watching "X-Men: First Class" for like the sixth time this week, and well . . . long story short, I've been up all night reading "Cherrik" fan fiction on here.

But I'm all good, have had my fill of mutant slash, and am ready to bring you my penultimate chapter! Sorry, guys, I think the one after this will be the end; I said from the beginning that I never wanted to write a healing-fic; just some sedative angst, with a bit of Sperek thrown in. Think I'm about there . . . And anyway, I've got a Sherlock crossover to get out there . . . and something for my darling "Peter/Reid" friendship . . . *Sighs* No rest for the wicked, _ja?_

As always, I adore all of the people who've taken their time to let me know what they think of the story. It's helped restore my confidence in writing this, and I'm glad everyone's been so wonderful. I'm sorry that next week will be our last meeting, at least for a little while . . .

**Warnings:** This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

**Disclaimer:** The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling _Criminal Minds_ as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is _yours._

Do enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine:<strong>

_Break Before Fall_

* * *

><p>FBI policy stated that talking down a suspect was <em>always <em>the best method, and the first one to be employed. Reid could cite the exact passage, word-for-word, and say who had come up with it, when, and why it was there.

But, as much as the BAU's resident genius loved facts and statistics, he couldn't think in any words right now. All that was running through his mind was how fast his adrenaline was pumping, how many seconds he had gone without oxygen so far, how hungry Mason's eyes looked, how furious Derek did . . .

All the while, his heart was thumping wildly, and he swore he could _feel_ the blood rushing in his ears.

He opened his mouth – to speak, to breathe, to scream, he couldn't be sure which, but it did matter because –

– because suddenly there was a hiss, a thud, and the grip on his neck was gone.

Blinded for a second by shock, Reid flailed back and found himself landing with a heavy _thud_ on the hard ground. The surprising pain of landing on some of his tender spots leftover from last night made his eyes water, and it was with blurred vision that he looked up to see what had happened.

Their positions of just a moment earlier had seemingly switched; now, as Reid became the observer, it was Morgan who had his hands wrapped around Mason's throat, a murderous look in his eyes.

"Don't you _ever_," the black agent snarled, slamming Mason into the wall with each word, "_ever, ever_ lay your _filthy, disgusting hands _on him. _Ever again."_

Their convict couldn't respond, because his face was turning purple, and even though some part of Reid was relieved that the man was no longer touching him, he was already scrambling to his feet, the agent in him needing to diffuse the situation before it got worse.

"Morgan," he called, desperate to get the man's attention, "Morgan, let go!"

He was ignored by both men, and hearing the gasping, sucking noises that Mason was making spurred Reid on further. He stepped up to the older agent, and placed a hand on his arm, firmly gripping and trying to bring the attention back to him.

_"__Morgan_," he hissed, more urgently now, shaking the skin underneath his fingers. "Morgan I'm fine, I'm okay. You _have to let go, now."_

When he still found he was being paid no mind, Reid started tugging, his voice cracking with desperation. "Morgan, M-Morgan _please don't. Stop. _Y-You're killing him – !"

Reid found the rest of his words were cut off when one of Morgan's arms shot out unthinkingly and pushed him away, and he slammed harshly into the wall, teeth biting down on his tongue.

Trying to ignore the rush of blood he tasted in his mouth, Reid looked up again at the two men before him, feeling once more that nervous quell of fright that he had tried so hard to suppress ever since coming in here.

And, even now, it wasn't just for their unsub, with his malicious comments and desire to hurt everyone around him.

No, Reid also found himself shaking at the sheer rage in Morgan's face, at the tense and unforgiving stance of his arms, the muscles quivering as he was slowly choking the life out of the man in his steely grip.

Reid shuddered, unable to help shifting back into the wall further; he knew what it was like to have that anger directed at him, knew what it was like to be afraid of the normally smiling, gentle man. And while he felt no sympathy for Mason, he did have empathy; the kind that manifested itself into sheer terror and paralyzed him, forcing him to watch the destruction going on before him while being unable to do anything about it.

Seconds passed like eternities, and Reid could see the life slipping away from their suspect, could see the fight leaving his body –

– and then, somewhere to his right, the door slammed open, and then there were voices, sounds. People, flooding the room like a tidal wave, forever changing what might have been.

Hands were on his shoulders, tugging him up, and Reid flinched from the touch at first, but when the grip didn't let up, limply went along with the motions and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

He blinked, and turned slowly, to be met with the concerned eyes of one Emily Prentiss.

"Reid? Reid, are you okay?"

The words seemed to bounce around in his head for a minute before making any sense, and, after a too-long heartbeat, Reid nodded. Then, uncharacteristically, he turned away from her, and faced the rest of the chaos going on inside of the room.

Rossi and Hotch each had a firm grip on one of Morgan's arms, and were yanking him away from their unsub – whom JJ and two other officers were restraining, pulling out a pair of handcuffs as they checked his pulse. Garcia stood in the doorway with Anderson, both looking rather in a state of shock.

But even with all of this going on around him, demanding his attention, Reid only focused on the person he cared about most, the one spitting and struggling and doing his best to get free, to keep attacking.

To protect what was his.

" – son of a bitch, you better hope they don't sign you up for another interview – !"

"Agent Morgan, _calm down_." Hotch's teeth were bared in a rare display of dominant fury, and even from across the room, Reid could see his grip tightening as he yanked Morgan out of the room.

Before he fully disappeared, Mason's called after him, "The next time, it'll just be me and the pretty boy, how about that, _Agent?"_

Seeing that the one he was taunting was no longer in the room, Mason's dark eyes alighted upon him, victorious and vicious and full of that dark, empty hunger that shook Reid to his very core.

"Hello, poppet."

Feeling nauseous, Reid scrambled behind Prentiss, and, following the rest of the team, swiftly exited the room.

* * *

><p>It didn't take long to find out where Hotch had dragged Morgan; Reid simply followed the shouting, and stumbled into a different interrogation anteroom – one that, he noticed, didn't have a huge window with a view of Mason Randall.<p>

That was probably for the best.

At least, Hotch must have thought so, since it gave him a completely undistracted Derek Morgan to tear to shreds.

" – the _Hell_ were you thinking, Morgan?!"  
>"He was threatening Reid, Hotch! He fucking had <em>his hands<em> on him, and – !"

"And what? You _knew_ we were watching, you_ knew_ we would be in there in a second –_"_

"And because I somehow didn't feel comfortable letting my – " he paused, floundering, " — letting _Reid_ get hurt, I need to be suspended?"

Hotch took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. "No, Morgan. I'm considering suspending you because you've messed with our investigation. There's _no way_ Mason is going to tell us where the dump site is now, not any of us except perhaps Reid – "

Morgan growled – actually _growled,_ his entire body tense as though poised for attack. "You are _not_ sending Reid in there again, Hotch."

"If the investigation calls for it – "

"I will personally beat the confession out of that sicko and hand in my badge and gun before I let you make Reid a display piece." Morgan's voice was low, deadly.

"He's a grown man, Morgan. And he wouldn't be alone – "

"He. Is not. _Doing it_."

Morgan took another step towards his boss, fists still clenched tight by his sides, and Reid felt a flash or irrational fear that the scene from the other room was about to repeat itself, and he rushed forward, all instincts suppressed by the shock that was still fading from the nasty turn that their interrogation had taken.

"I won't have to." When he spoke, his voice sounded a lot calmer than he actually was.

Both heads snapped towards him, and fighting back that oh-so-familiar wave of self-consciousness, Reid spoke slowly, willing himself not to stutter.

"We don't need to interview Mason again; M-Morgan's right, Hotch, send him away from here. Get him ready for trial."

"Reid," Hotch started in that patronizing tone that his subordinate _so_ _hated_, "I'm not suggesting that we send you in there by yourself, of course not. But the plan from before was a valid idea, and as long as you're in there, we might be able to get Randall to reveal the locations – "

Reid cut his boss off by shaking his head. "No, Hotch. You're not listening to me. We don't _need_ to keep Mason here, because he already told us what we wanted to know."

Both of the men before the young genius jerked, utterly disconcerted, and it was Morgan who spoke this time, raising an eyebrow as he did.

"Whaddaya mean, kid? He hasn't said – "

Trying to ignore the uncomfortable jerk his stomach gave at having Morgan speak to him for the first time since they exchanged words this morning, Reid spoke again, this time shifting his posture so he was standing more surely, his hands clenched slightly at his sides to control their nervous trembling.

"No, you're right, Derek, he didn't out-and-out tell us what we wanted to know. Not even close to it being that easy, right?" Reid gulped. "What he _said_ was that I was pretty, and that it was making his morning. What he _said_ was that he would know how to treat me with his own definition of _love. _What he _said _was . . . was t-that he wanted to take me _to his cabin_, and – and . . . "

Reid trailed off, whether not sure or just not desirous to continue, it was impossible to tell. Maybe – probably – both.

Either way, he stayed quiet as Hotch and Morgan paused, taking this new information in. They looked first at each other, and then at Reid, who was keenly observing the floor, left hand clamped tightly over the crook of his right arm.

A sight that broke Morgan's heart just a little bit, because he knew when his Pretty Boy was stressed, suffering.

Hotch noticed this too, but, unlike the SSA next to him, it was neither his place nor in his best interest to speak about it. Swallowing tightly and trying to bury the pain of it all once more, Hotch forced himself to turn to the team waiting by the doorway.

"Garcia," he decided, his voice the firm, no-nonsense Unit Chief tone they had all come to know and fear by now, "look into everything connected property-wise with Randall; not stuff he owns, we've already run through that. Look for anything under a family member's name or control. Something secluded but workable, something he wouldn't have had trouble getting access to." Penelope nodded once and turned swiftly, the clacking of her heels following her all the way down the hallway.

Next, Hotch turned to Rossi. "Dave, please go accompany Randall back to his cell, see if he lets something slip we can use against him in court – although assault of a federal agent might be manageable, if we can get him to keep quiet about Morgan."

"He started the damn thing – " Morgan's protest was silenced by one of Hotch's swift, deadly looks.

"JJ, there's a pile of files on your desk to sort through for our next case – you have my full permission to take a lunch break and then get to them. Prentiss, I want you to go over Randall's profile with me one more time, and help compile a list of the people we're looking for. We'll start notifying family members as quickly as possible, and get a SWAT team suited up to storm any locations Garcia finds."

"You two," he finished, turning at last to face Morgan and Reid, "are being sent home to cool off and recover. Call if you need anything – " at this, he glanced significantly at Reid, something Morgan couldn't help but note with a trace of bitterness, "– but I don't want to see either of you again until Monday, understand?"

Reid nodded once, still not making eye-contact with either of them, and fled from the room.

Morgan looked as if he wanted to chase after his (still?) boyfriend, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. When he turned around, Hotch's face, though half-hidden in the dark, looked dead-serious and dripping with authority.

"No more of my agents are showing up to work with bruises, Morgan," he said slowly and quietly, everything about his tone telling the subordinate agent just exactly what would happen if today were to repeat itself _ever again._

Making sure to meet his eye precisely, Morgan nodded, ignoring the lump that had formed in the back of his throat.

A moment of staring passed between the two, an entire conversation in which a word was never spoken aloud, and then . . . Hotch nodded, too, seeming satisfied with whatever he had seen in Morgan's expression.

"Good luck," he murmured, releasing his hold on the younger man, both physically and mentally giving him permission to do what he was clearly so aching to.

Blinking a thanks, Morgan took off through the doors, down the hallway and out the BAU, towards the parking garage, with every intention of grabbing his Pretty Boy and whisking the two of them off to somewhere where they could talk.

Where _he_ could talk. Where he could apologize.

Something in Morgan's gut was twisting as he entered the cool air of the cement structure where everyone from the FBI parked, and he started walking to the reserved parking spots for the BAU.

He thought it might be nerves, the thought of having to face everything he'd done last night making him cramp up. Or, possibly, it was guilt – because no matter how Morgan justified it, he knew easily that he'd screwed up big-time, and there really was no excuse.

Maybe, on some level, there was some anticipation, even excitement – he already missed his lithe lover, and even with all of the crap they had to wade through coming up, he wanted them to see each other, to speak to one another, forgive, forget . . . move on?

He shook his head. It wasn't going to be easy – hell, it might not even be possible so quickly. But he had to have faith.

He loved Spencer Reid. And no one – not even that damn fool of a genius – was going to stop that.

But as Morgan rounded the last corner to face his team's designated parking spots, he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach just a little bit, and finally realized what the aching in his stomach had been about.

Dread. Fear, plain and simple. Agony at it's finest.

Because while he had been up there defending himself to Hotch, Reid had been walking down here, alone and still very much in pain from the past day . . . and, even in his injured and distressed state, had apparently decided it a better idea to attempt to navigate the streets of Quantico by himself rather than ask for help.

His car wasn't there.

Spencer was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Endnote: <strong>*Big announcer's voice* NEXT WEEK, THE EXCITING CONCLUSION!

. . . Pssht. Sure. I'll see you as soon as my workweek is over, pinky-swears.

( . . . Oh, and for anyone wondering; yep, the 'poppet' line was totally taken from _Pirates of the Caribbean_; every time Smurch says that line to Kiera Knightly, I get all shivery. Deliciously creepy, I just _had_ to use it!)

Tata!


	10. Final, Final

**Author's Note: **Alrighty, then, my sweet little dearies — this is where we part ways. Tomorrow, I start all of my classes again, and with the three research papers I've already been assigned, I can't guarantee for cereal just when the next story is coming; my only promise is that it'll be something with Spencer Reid. (DUH.)

Anyhoo . . . I really love every single one of you who read, favorited, followed, and reviewed; as awful as I was about responding to almost everyone, I did read all of your thoughts, and am totally bombed by the thoughtfulness and insight offered by so many of you wonderful people. This story was way outta bounds for me, and I hope another author can do this story a helluva lot more justice than I ever did. In the meantime, . . . **Annber03, pochette, silverwrym, Sue1313, snuggy29, Inuhime1, omgnotagain, Accalya Wolfriend, woolyjumpers, Castianamicheals, **SO MANY **Guests, **and especially my plot-predictor **marcallie; **you guys are stabulous, and made a weird time so much better for me. Thank you SO MUCH for that. *Grins like an idiot*

**Warnings:** This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

**Disclaimer:** The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling _Criminal Minds_ as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is _yours._

Do enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ten:<strong>

_Final, Final_

* * *

><p>Maybe <em>gone<em> wasn't the right word. That implied something . . . dreadful. Something permanent.

Morgan knew things were bad, but he didn't think they would be forever. He was an optimist like that. And it was with no small amount of hope that the man had earlier leapt into his car and revved the engine, determined to find the person he cared about most in the world as quickly as he could.

Like it was that easy.

He had started out small – checking both of their apartments, the diner where they'd had their first date, a used book-store that Spencer was always going on about . . . but, two hours and several pointless conversations later, he had nothing to show for his efforts but the ticking hand on his watch and a lot of frustration.

It was then that, somewhat saddened by the fact, Morgan had started to think not like a lover, but like a profiler. He looked at the facts, and removed the so-very-many feelings from the equation.

Reid was hurt – emotionally mostly, but certainly physically. He was stressed, probably exhausted . . . he had no money that Morgan knew of, because in his haste he'd left his wallet back at the BAU . . . and he was Spencer Reid.

_Spencer._ _Shy, swift, intelligent, beautiful –_

Morgan shook his head of the last thought. Right now, he couldn't afford to think like that. He had to find his Pretty Boy.

_Reid. _Right.

God, he hoped he hadn't gone and gotten himself _lost_ somewhere . . .

And then, in that moment, it came to Morgan, so quick and obvious that he could have smacked himself for not thinking of it earlier.

_The park. _

He pulled the car smoothly into drive.

Right near Spencer'a apartment, there was a public park that was frequented by mothers with small children, college-age kids and their girlfriends, and lots of couples taking romantic strolls through the flower gardens.

And chess players – there was a private pavilion near the center of the park that had a number of gorgeous marble boards installed with hand-timers and chairs. A geek's heaven, really, the best place to discover and develop your own game.

Morgan sighed, smiling at the memories. Rumor had it that it was that very park where Jason Gideon had first discovered the then-one-doctorate-holding Dr. Reid, and eventually recruited him to the FBI. It was where they'd had Garcia's first forced team-gathering, when she insisted Emily needed to be initiated into the BAU with alcohol, fircrackers, and loud music. Where Rossi had – much to his later embarrassment – delighted the rest of his team members with drunken reminiscings about Erin Strauss, and the early days of the BAU. Where Hotch had told the rest of them about the divorce he was going through. Where JJ said she'd quite like to get married someday . . .

It was the place where Spencer Reid had cultivated a mere curiosity about the game of chess into a hobby, a stress-relief-technique . . . a lifeline. Where he had gone to reflect on his life after Elle left, after Gideon did . . . after he'd gotten shot . . .

It was where his lover felt safe.

And right then, Morgan knew there was nothing Reid needed more at that moment.

He pulled into a parking spot, and turned.

There he was.

Not at the chess square, like Morgan had thought . . . but close enough.

The long, lanky form of Spencer Reid was curled up gently on one of the benches by the playground, his legs folded up under his waist in a manner that almost appeared childlike. His hands were clasped in front of him, eyes easily closed, and he looked to be in deep thought. Or mediation, or something . . .

Morgan wondered for just a second if he should wait, should stay in the car and try to get back with Reid at a later time – but just then, those gorgeous hazel eyes flittered open, and met his for a hair's width of a second. He blinked, and a small, nostalgic smile grace his face before the beautiful boy's eyes closed again.

Morgan was almost in shock. It was the first time he'd seen Reid smile all day.

Well, that decided it.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, and got out of the car.

* * *

><p>Reid heard the footsteps, off in some distant corner of his mind. He wasn't surprised; he and Morgan knew one another almost as well as they knew themselves, and this wasn't exactly a James-Bond worthy hiding spot. The moment he had heard the familiar purr of the older man's prized car, he knew what was coming.<p>

And still, he wasn't ready.

He was starting to think he wouldn't ever be.

Somewhere off to his left, he heard a car door snap shut, and the smooth patting of hard shoes on wet grass. He took a deep breath.

A moment later, the bench he rested on sagged down, and he could feel the oh-so-familiar warmth of Derek Morgan's presence beside him.

For a while, no one spoke. And then Reid cleared his throat.

"You startled me."

He didn't have to see Morgan to know the other man was smiling just slightly. "Sorry about that."

Reid paused. "It's okay."

Morgan nodded once, and then a blanket of uncomfortable silence reigned over them, thick and suffocating. One minute passed, and then another, each man observing the other without actually looking at them, each trying to find the words to say what was going on.

Finally, Reid opened his mouth, "You can . . . you can actually sit. You know, if – if you'd like."

A pause, and then, "Okay. Okay, yeah."

The bench sank down slightly, and then there was that small feeling of warmth that Reid got whenever his boyfriend was near him, that subtle blast of body heat that always made its way straight to Reid's core.

He peeked through his mess of curls to the man sitting next to him. Morgan looked just as nervous as he, just as tense. Just as scared.

Reid let out a small huff of breath. What were they supposed to do?

Before he could think on it, a voice that sounded almost too timid to be the man he worked with spoke up, the note of hesitance painfully obvious.

"I don't really know what's supposed to happen now."

Reid glanced over, surprised by the tone, and it took him a moment to respond. It came in the form of a bitter, dry laugh, the sound so unfamiliar on his tongue that Morgan looked up, concerned.

Reid waved him away, and took a moment to gather himself again. "You always loved to say that I know everything, Derek, but . . ." he threw his hands up in the air, "I don't have a clue about what's next either."

The words came from a smile, but there was no amusement in them. In truth, deep down, Reid was trying not to panic over his lack of insight, over his residual fear, over the fact that Morgan was here, too close in so many ways and too far in so many more, over the fact that they were either going to start over or end right here . . . .

Over the silence that had somehow returned to the air, uncomfortable and thick.

"I am sorry," Morgan's voice jolted the genius out of his thoughts, the pitch and crack in it immediately making him want to run his hands over Derek's and tell him everything would be okay.

But, of course, Reid didn't. The fact was, plain and simple, he had no idea how things were going to be, good or bad. Just that nothing was going to be the same.

Ever again.

He swallowed tightly before he spoke. "How far back does that _sorry_ extend?"

Morgan glanced over at him, but couldn't meet his eye all the same. "As much as it can without losing heart. For earlier today, of course. This morning, last night . . . Hell, last week, for that matter." He let out a bitter laugh. "Sorry for every thing I've ever done to hurt you, Pretty Boy. You, of all people, don't deserve to be hurt."

Reid bit down on his tongue, eyes cast to the ground. Words didn't make a difference.

Well, they _shouldn't._

"You've never actually hurt me, Derek. I mean, yes, there were words and confrontations, things neither of us should have said . . . but none of it was ever an issue until . . . well, until last night, you'd never come at me . . . physically." His voice got quieter and quieter as he spoke, trailing off into a whisper at the very end.

"You _scared_ me, Derek."

Morgan felt the sudden urge to reach out his hand and pull Spencer into a bone-crushing hug, wrap him up tight in his arms and physically _show_ him that no one, _no one_, was ever going to make him fearful ever again.

But, of course, he didn't move. Couldn't. He kept himself as still as possible, and looking at Reid, only Reid.

Eventually, as his lover knew he would, the genius spoke again, slow and hesitant as the words very slowly came to him.

"I've never trusted too many people, Derek. You know that I . . . I'm by myself as much as possible." He swallowed. "All the time. You . . . I-I mean, you were the only one I've ever let in as much as I did. And you . . . you . . . " he trailed off, unable to find the words, and stared miserably at his lap.

Warm fingers were suddenly on his chin, gently tugging upwards and forcing Reid to meet the eyes of the man he was very much in love with – even now, still. He tensed slightly, but the slight flutter of fear twisting in his stomach was quelled the moment he stared into Derek Morgan's eyes.

"I want so bad to excuse what I did, Pretty Boy," the older man began, his voice weighted down with regret and sorrow. "But there isn't one; even if I was drunk, even if I was dead tired, even if the fucking world was ending – " his voice caught, and he took a moment to calm down, reign in his emotions, "there is _never, ever_ an excuse that can justify hurting you."

Reid was shocked to see tears clouding Morgan's eyes. He leaned away slightly, trying to distance himself from the uncomfortable display of such raw emotion.

There were several beats of silence before he responded.

"No," Reid said cautiously, his voice easily showing the trepidation that he felt. "No, you're right. There is none."

The words hurt him to say, especially after he saw Morgan flinch out of the corner of his eye, and it took everything within Reid's willpower not to just pull the older man closer and tell him that everything was going to be okay, that they were fine, _fine_.  
>But he didn't. Reid knew it would be a lie to say something so simple. As if they could pretend that none of this had ever happened.<p>

He shuddered. It had all happened – very much so.

Morgan's eyes met his own, the plea behind them making them shine even in the fading afternoon light of the park. "Pretty Boy," he started, reaching up a hand to run through Reid's hair, as he had done countless times before.

It was a familiar gesture, one of kindness and affection – and still, Reid ducked his head away from Morgan, that little flash of fear in his stomach growing brighter, colder.

* * *

><p>Morgan froze at the movement. His hand swayed in midair, and he felt a bite of nausea in his gut.<p>

Broken. All of it.

_Oh, God. _

Reid seemed just as surprised as he was, just as offended. He frowned slightly, and curled up in on himself even tighter, biting his lip and wearing an expression on his face that was something akin to remorse.

It was awhile before Morgan had collected himself enough to speak. When he did, his voice was wavery, hesitant.

"What does this mean?"

Reid shook his head, hearing Morgan but apparently not listening.

He tried again. "Spencer?"

Reid sighed, everything in his defensive posture slowly melting away as he deflated, looking for the first time much older than his years. Exhausted.

"If you want the honest truth, Derek? I have no idea."

Reid smiled somewhat bitterly to himself, the light in his eyes flickering curiously. "You always say that I know everything – but I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to be doing now. I'm frightened by your touch and hesitant of your presence." He swallowed hollowly, his Adam's apple bobbing up jerkily. "But if I let you leave – if I make you – it's going to be worse than any pain you could ever inflict."

Morgan felt the twist in his esophagus, and quickly prayed that he wouldn't be sick. "Pretty – _Spencer_; I never meant to hurt you. _Never_. Please, _please_ tell me that you know that."

Reid nodded. "I d-do know. I just . . . "

"It was the alcohol, Spencer. Just the alcohol, I promise. You know I would never – " Morgan choked on his own words as he caught sight of the marks on Reid's wrist and neck again. Flashbacks so vivid it was like they were in 3-fucking-D threatened to overtake him once more, and Morgan forced himself to hold back.

"I love you, Spencer."

Reid's voice was trembling almost as much as his hands. "I . . . I love you too, Derek. I j-just . . ." he trailed off, unable or unwilling to put his thoughts into words.

"Then we can work on moving on," Derek said in a futile effort to fill the void. He felt his heart fall as Spencer shook his head.

"If you're talking about forgetting, Derek – "

"I'm not, please, I – "

"Let me finish," Spencer cut in, his voice collected and steady. Morgan held his tongue.

Reid took a deep breath. "I'm not going to pretend that I an just forget everything that happened, Derek, because I can't. You hurt me; I trusted you – with my heart, my feelings, my safety . . . and last night, I think you caused me more pain than I've been through in a long, long time. And it's not just these – " he gestured to the varying marks marring his slender body – "that I'm talking about." He met Morgan's eyes. "I never though I would have to be afraid of _you_, of all people, Derek."

Morgan entire posture had been slumping as Reid spoke, and he seemed utterly lifeless as the genius sucked in a breath, preparing to speak his final part.

"If it had been anyone other than you, I would leave right now."

Morgan looked up, not daring to believe that he might have heard what he thought he jut had.

"If it was anyone else . . . ?"

It was Reid who averted his eyes this time when he spoke again. "I love you, Derek. I always have, and I always will. And, for me, at least . . . love means a lot of struggle, a lot of effort . . ." He looked up, gorgeous hazel eyes pinning Derek into his place as he kept speaking. " . . . and in return, love gives us something wonderful, euphoric, so base and elemental and utterly human that we cannot function without it." He took in another breath. "It's how I feel about you, Derek. I _love_ you. No matter what we go through, we go through it together, and I have faith that we can survive."

Morgan couldn't believe his ears. "I thought that – "

Reid held up a hand. "So did I. But I think, deep down, I knew it wasn't over."

Morgan swallowed, not wanting to blink, lest this marvelous gift he was being given fade away into the void of hopelessness he had just come out of.

"I will never, ever hurt you again."

Reid nodded. "I know you won't. Because if there's a next time, Derek, I won't let my heart guide me. I'll call the police, move my things out of your apartment, and transfer units so fast that you'll have your head spinning. And we'll never see one another again. _That_, I promise."

Derek froze. "You're not doing that now . . . ?"

Reid shook his head. "No." He laughed, a wry and bitter chuckle that curdled Morgan's insides. "The agent part of me is screaming that this is a bad idea, that the only thing that makes any sense to do is leave you now and try to recover, but . . . there would be no recovery without you, Derek. I need you, I . . . I love you."

"I love you, too, Spencer."

Reid swallowed tightly, nearly choking on the words as he spoke them.

"It doesn't mean that things aren't going to change, Derek. They have to. I can't – I c-can't be scared of you again, not like – n-not like – " he broke off, a miserable look on his face.

Morgan moved closer to his side, arms tentatively wrapping around Spencer's shaking shoulders. "Anything you want, Spencer. Anything. _Everything._"

Reflexively, Reid leaned into the touch, warming Morgan's heart and giving him hope for the first time since this awful day hard started, what seemed like forever ago. When he spoke, it was with a trite voice, the familiar hesitation starting to bleed through.

"We need to . . . we need to figure out a plan of action, when we – when we get cases like that again. I don't want you turning to alcohol, and – " he gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully "_I_ don't want to give in to a craving, either. We n-need a way to resolve this if it happens again."

"It won't," Morgan said with certainty. The hell it would – he would _die_ before hurting his wonderful Pretty Boy again.

"I hope not," Reid responded cautiously. "But . . . nothing's set in stone, Derek. I just want to be prepared in case something _does _come up."

Hating himself for hating the idea, Morgan forced a calm face, and when he spoke, the inner angst was undetectable. "Fine, then. We'll toss the booze at home, and set up someone to be a buffer system for us."

Reid looked over, eyes peeking through the tendrils of his hair. "That means we'd have to tell someone about us."

Morgan waved a hand dismissively. "Apparently Hotch knows."

Reid paled slightly. "He told you about that?"

Morgan nodded. "Apparently figured it out a while ago. I tell ya, we don't give that man nearly enough credit as a profiler."

Reid smiled ever-so-slightly. "Or maybe we're just not as subtle as we think; Garcia knows, too."

Morgan's head fell into his hands. "That means that all of the women in the BAU know, then."

"Probably."

" . . . I guess it means that we can at least have our pick of who to talk to about this?"

Reid pursed his lips, gathering his courage before he spoke. "Or we could just save all the trouble, and tell them all at once."

Morgan glanced at him, one eyebrow quirking. "You really think you're ready for that, Spencer?"

Trying to keep the shaking in his voice to a minimum, Reid took his times with his words. "I think that, if I have anything to say about it, you and I are going to be together for a good, long time. And that these are the people we work with, people we care about, the ones we love . . . they deserve to know. We have to tell them."

Morgan only remembered one part of the words his lover had spoken. "We're going to be together for a long time?"

Reid nodded slowly. "Forever, if I have anything to say about it."

Relief flooded Morgan's body, nearly overtaking him in it's sweetness. "Oh, thank God," he whispered, resting his forehead on Reid's shoulder, doing his best not to collapse. "Whatever you want, baby-boy, whatever you want."

Somehow, some way, he had been given another chance.

There was no way he was fucking it up again.

* * *

><p>The two men sat in the park until long after the light had faded from the sky, until the wind was a whisper, the heat had cooled to a soft mistiness, until the only noise came from crickets and the only visibility from the constant blinking of fireflies in the air.<p>

And then, just before the clock struck the hour, both men rose, hands still entwined, and walked slowly to their cars, finally going home.

_Home. _

It would be anywhere, just so long as they were together.

* * *

><p><em>"Scars are like battle wounds; beautiful, in a way. They show what you've been through, how strong you are for surviving."<em>

— _Demi Lovato_

* * *

><p><em>"True love leaves every sort of scar; they don't heal, but it's only because they were real in the first place. Like love itself."<em>

— _Stephen King_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Endnote: <strong>Annnd, they lived happily ever after. I mean, c'mon, was there ever any question about that? As far as Sperek goes, the two of them always get to sail off into the sunset, no matter what crap came first.

. . . Sorry for those of you who complained to me that I was rushing the ending; truly, I am. This happens to be the way I love my stories to conclude; with a _whump_ of whatever, the viewer's eyes widening as they think, "Did that happen?"

It's called black-out, and I know I'm gonna get some crap for it; but this is the only way I wanted to conclude this story — anything else wouldn't have been my best, and I REFUSE to half-ass something on here.

. . . Anyways . . . I'm outie again. May we meet again soon with another story, I hope . . . *Smiles*


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